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A N D A R Y 



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Copyright N° 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE QUANDARY : A PLAY 
IN THREE ACTS : BY 
J.ROSETT ue ^ ^ 



AUTHOR OF "THE MIDDLE CLASS" 



PHOENIX PRESS 
BALTIMORE 






COPYRIGHT, 1913, 
BY J. ROSETT 



©Gf.D 34056 



PREFACE. 

A Dissertation on the Evolution of 
Humps, Etc. 

Whether we shall kill off our weak, as some of 
our forefathers did, and as present-day society is 
bent upon doing; or whether we shall permit them 
to survive, by adapting them to such spheres of 
usefulness as the high heterogeneity of functions 
of our highly evolved social organism affords; is 
a question on which we may differ. But we must all 
agree that if the former expedient is to be adopted, 
it should be carried out in accordance with a plan 
that would satisfy certain requirements of civiliza- 
tion : it should involve the minimum of expense ; it 
should be accompanied with the least amount of 
suffering to the subjects; it should not endanger 
the well being of the survivors; and it should be 
more or less esthetic. 

The electric chair is not a bad device for the 
purpose ; for besides fulfilling the above-mentioned 
requirements, it has the additional advantage of 
being in itself, so to say, a demonstration of what 



IV 

the organized genius of man is capable of accom- 
plishing — a living triumph of civilization. The 
hangman's noose is not as safe for the survivors as 
it appears; experience having taught us that the 
high scaffolding is not always secure, and that the 
trap frequently falls prematurely, much to the 
damage of the sheriff's assistants' arms and legs. 
Its esthetics, too, are in many points defective. 
Furthermore, it arouses in us none of the feelings 
of moral pride and satisfaction that the electric 
chair does. The guillotine is an ugly thing, in- 
volving the shedding of blood — as ancient a thing 
as the butcher's knife; it kills the human being in 
about the same manner that they slaughter cattle 
— an association unbearable to the civilized mind. 
Certain poisons, particularly the cyanide of potash, 
are, in the opinion of some, even superior to the 
electric chair, being cheap, speedy and highly es- 
thetic. The cyanide of potash causes death not 
by the corrosion of any tissues, but by the propa- 
gation of an impulse — a wave of isomeric trans- 
formation — along the afferent nerves, which, as 
it passes through the central ganglia into the ef- 
ferent nerves of the muscles of respiration, causes 
in them an inhibition of the normal impulses, thus 
bringing on death by asphyxiation — an exalting, a 
solemn, an almost awe-inspiring thought of the 



V 

wonderful molecular arrangements and forces that 
mere dirt is capable of evolving. 

Strange as it may seem, we employ none of the 
excellent means of killing at our disposal. Instead 
we choose to employ methods that involve the 
maximum of cost, the maximum of suffering to the 
subjects, the maximum of danger to the survivors, 
and which are, in point of ugliness, unsurpassed by 
the most highly evolved products of ugliness in the 
entire history of savagery, barbarism and civiliza- 
tion. We torture our weak; we hound and starve 
and poison them slowly. In truth, the slower the 
process, the greater our satisfaction. We make 
indeed slowness the chief point; and the efforts of 
the legion of our well-intentioned philanthropists, 
professional moralists and prescribers (read pre- 
scribes, not proscribers) of virtue, are all directed 
towards this one point — to make the execution 
of the weak among us as slow a process as possible. 
To protract the agonies of a weak boy for only so 
much as one year is considered by us a deed com- 
pensable by the profoundest sense of moral satis- 
faction. A single Christmas dinner, dished out 
once a year to a half-starved cannery employee on 
half time — a potion that may protract her suffer- 
ings for but a few hours — is regarded as an action 
engendering much piety and virtue. 



VI 

In order to show that these lines are not written 
in a spirit of bias or bitterness, let a word be said in 
favor of this method. It has the virtue of saving 
us the trouble of a diagnosis — the perplexing and 
difficult task of separating the weak from the 
strong that a speedy method of execution would 
necessitate. We merely subject all the children 
of our species to a test of strength, to be presently 
explained, somewhat after the manner of the cold 
bath administered by the Spartans to their newly 
born infants. The strong are expected to escape 
the test, and the weak to succumb to it. Being 
on a higher plane of civilization, however, and in 
possession of the advantages of nineteen centuries 
of Christianity, our test is superior to that of the 
Spartans in that it is somewhat more extended, 
more complex, and rather more — costly. 

What is this test? 

While still quite young, we begin by bringing 
before the child a false, a distorted, an impossible 
picture of its environments. That in order (there 
seems to be no other reason that we can think of) 
to disable it from responding correctly to the en- 
vironing influences; probably with the view that 
since the life of those who w T ill succumb to the 
test is to be only a protracted death, it is as well 
that society be protected from any harm that the 



VII 

doomed individuals may exert, by cheating them 
out of the facts with which they are about to cope 
in their efforts to maintain themselves alive. And so 
Santa Claus fills the Christmas stocking. The moon 
is made of cheese. Friday is an unlucky day, and 
13 an unlucky number. Satan always finds some- 
thing for idle hands to do; everything is for the 
best; the universe was especially devised for the 
benefit of mankind; the dead baby-brother feeds 
on milk and honey, plays the harp, and wears a 
golden crown and a pair of silver wings. Man 
multiplies neither by gamogenesis nor by agamo- 
genesis; the doctor or the midwife merely ushers 
in the stork, who brings the baby from where the 
waterlilies grow. Neither man nor animals nor 
plants have any sexual organs, and it is a shame to 
speak about them. The atmosphere is full of the 
spirits of dead people, of witches, devils and angels. 
And yet, for all that, seven times nine are sixty 
three, or you go without lunch. 

The result of such an education is a form of in- 
sanity, which may be aptly termed educational in- 
sanity. The strong are expected to escape it; only 
the weak are supposed to contract it. Yet, how 
few of us have been so fortunate as to entirely es- 
cape from its effects. Fewer still are willing to 
admit that traces of that insanity cling to them 



VIII 

throughout life, in spite of their best efforts to 
counteract them. 

What follows? 

The living organism is a moving equilibrium. A 
disturbance of that equilibrium in one direction 
will result in a compensating disturbance in another 
direction. A curvature of the spine at one point, 
will result in a curvature in the opposite direction 
at another point. A hump on the back brings 
about also a hump on the front. In short, one 
deformity, in the effort of the living organism to 
maintain its equilibrium, breeds another. And so, 
to equilibrate the effects on the child's mind from 
telling it one lie, it becomes necessary to tell it an- 
other ; or else the child itself compensates it by the 
construction of false theories and hypotheses. So 
that by the time the child is sufficiently grown, and 
in our estimation capable of shifting for itself, it 
is full of humps on every side. 

Before proceeding, however, let it be noted that 
the child thus deformed by society, is itself a part 
of society's organism; that society, too, is a mov- 
ing equilibrium; and that a hump at one part of 
society's body, also inevitably results in a hump 
at another part of its body. In deforming the 
child, society has, therefore, really acquired a de- 
formity; and that deformity will henceforth serve 



IX 

as the starting point of numerous other deformi- 
ties. Let us see how the process works: 

Having subjected its young to the educational 
insanity-test, and thus separated the weak from 
the strong, society now proceeds with the execu- 
tion of the former. It would appear that the task 
is now simple enough; since a weak and crippled 
being — so thoroughly unfitted to its environments 
that it will not only not see obstacles in its way 
where such obstacles exist, but actually see them 
where they do not exist — left to shift for itself, 
must inevitably perish in a short time. Simple 
enough indeed were it if that being — let us say a 
girl — could be left by society to shift for herself. 
The trouble is that she cannot. She is by this time 
thoroughly rooted in society's body. It is too late 
for a radical operation ; and the only way in which 
society can maintain itself in a more or less erect 
position with that hump on its back, is to acquire a 
hump on its front. This society now proceeds to 
do. 

It is true, the girl is employed in a canning es- 
tablishment at a starvation wage, and thus partly 
maintains herself, that is, pays part of the cost 
of her long-drawn-out execution. That were well 
enough had it not been for the fact that she is 
overwhelmingly possessed of an inherited tendency 



X 

to maintain her own particular equilibrium, a tend- 
ency to live ; that is, to preserve her own individual- 
ity and to perpetuate her race — the one manifesting 
itself in a desire for food, the other in that for love. 
Since, however, her wages are not meant for and 
consequently do not suffice for these purposes, the 
girl, robbed of the faculty of correlating distant 
causes and sequences, is impelled by the momentum 
of her inherited tendency along the line of least 
resistance, and she draws upon her fountain of 
love for her shortage of food. Thus society has 
triumphed. It has managed to maintain itself erect 
with a hump on its back by the acquisition of a 
hump on its front. 

An additional hump, however, involves addi- 
tional weight and discomfort. To allay that so- 
ciety proceeds to curve its lumbar spine. The 
forces of religion are bestirred to remove the so- 
called temptations from the girl's way. She is 
enjoined against the novel on the only day when 
she is at leisure — on Sunday; an effort is made to 
close up on the same day the places of amusement 
—the theatre, the dancing hall, the moving pic- 
ture palace, the concert hall. Immediately that is 
accomplished, the girl, having every outlet to her 
energies closed, proceeds along the most direct 
route and further indulges in prostitution. The 



XI 

lumbar curvature obviously calls for a cervical cur- 
vature. 

The professional and amateur dispensers of (of, 
not with) virtue are now let loose. The support of 
these legions is, of course, put upon the girl's back; 
her wages are still lower, with the result that she 
is impelled to resort still further to prostitution. 
Then come the various inducements to be good. 
Hell having lost its terrors to the girl, the philan- 
thropies step in to take its place — the charities with 
their donations, the Christmas dinners, the settle- 
ment-houses, and what not. The cost of these in- 
stitutions is again subtracted from the girl's wages ; 
she finds herself in the position of a public charac- 
ter; her last vestige of self-respect is destroyed; 
she becomes an out-and-out prostitute; and society 
parades a swelled head. The expedient of braces 
is now adopted; the police forces are multiplied; 
attempts are made at the suppression of houses of 
ill fame, with the result that the easily located and 
recognizable prostitute is driven at large to spread 
venereal disease broadcast. The weight of the 
braces — increased state-expenditures on the one 
hand and graft-scandals on the other — has still 
further deformed the already deformed body of 
society. Braces are now applied to brace the 
braces, without end. And so by the time the girl 



XII 

is safely lodged in her grave, the humped and 
bumped body of society lies prostrated in agony 
on its death-bed. 

And all that when a few cents' worth of the 
cyanide of potassium could have accomplished the 
trick with so much safety and ease. 

Now a word about the play itself. 

Upon the publication of "The Middle Class," 
I was politely accused by the critics of having 
plagiarized some of the ideas contained in that 
play from a number of sources. So much so that 
I was compelled to read a number of books in or- 
der to ascertain, for my own satisfaction, the truth 
of the accusation. Lest I be put to the same 
trouble once more, I therefore hereby make public 
declaration to the effect that I disclaim all origi- 
nality to any of the ideas contained in "The 
Quandary." Le\ them be credited to whatever 
source the critics may discover them to belong. One 
straight piece of plagiarism which I have com- 
mitted deliberately, I shall herewith point out. The 
idea of the pictures representing the several steps 
in the progress of woman's fall, I have appropri- 
ated from a book by Mr. Ernest A. Bell, Secretary 
of the Illinois Vigilance Association, Superintend- 
ent of Midnight Missions, etc., with special ar- 



XIII 

tides by men and women prominent in the politi- 
cal, religious and social circles of this country, 
entitled "Fighting the Traffic in Young Girls, or 
the War on the White Slave Trade — The Great- 
est Crime in the World's History." My "Step 
One" is taken bodily from a full-page picture in 
that book, there called "The First Step." The 
other "Steps" were suggested by that and other 
pictures and descriptions in the same book. 

Thus much for my own benefit. One word of 
warning for the benefit of the readers and theatri- 
cal managers. 

Three friends, on whom I can rely for a candid 
opinion, have kindly read the play in manuscript. 
One said that the play was immoral. Another, 
that the scene between Dr. Merril and Sam in the 
first scene of the second act, was morbid. The 
third, a lady, merely called me a reactionary. All 
the three agreed on two points — that I have writ- 
ten nothing but the plain truth, and that therefore 
no the*atrical manager in America would stage 
the play. 

J. Rosett. 

Baltimore, 1913. 



CHARACTERS: 

REV. FIEDLER, President of the Association 
for the Suppression of Vice. 

MR. HUNTER, owner of a canning establish- 
ment. 

MRS. HUNTER, his wife. 

DR. MERRIL, physician for the Association. 

MR. BLAKE, a hotel proprietor. 

MRS. HUNCH, a widow in a state of genteel 
poverty. 

CLARA, her daughter. 

SAM HIGGINS, an employee in Mr. Hunter's 
cannery. 

MR. HIGGINS, SR., his father. 

MR. COLEMAN, A. B., Ph. D., Executive 
Secretary of the Association, expert statistician. 



THE QUANDARY 



ACT. I. 

The office of the Society for the Suppression of 
Vice, Christmas Day, 1 1 A. M. 

A large, well-furnished room. At the right, in 
front, at a little distance from an open fireplace, is 
the secretary's desk, with writing materials, type- 
writer, telephones, books, etc., on it. On the rear 
wall, between the windows, is a series of nine litho- 
graphs, representing in as many chapters the story 
of a woman's fall. A large inscription above the 
series announces: "The Nine Steps of Woman's 
Fall " and sub-captions indicate the particular 
number of each "step" from one to nine. The 
room has one door, at the right. 

The rising of the curtain finds the Reverend Mr. 
Sachariah Fiedler behind the secretary's desk. Mr r 
Hunter, who has evidently just entered, is tucking 
away the gloves in his coat-pockets, and then pro- 



2 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

ceeds to pull of the coat. Mr. Sam Higgins has 
just placed a couple of large hand-baskets, neatly 
covered with white napkins, on the floor, in front 
of the door; he leaves the room, and presently re- 
turns with more baskets, repeating the excursion 
several times. 

The Rev. Mr. Fiedler, the president of the As- 
sociation, is a lean, tall, smooth-shaven gentleman 
of perhaps fifty. His bearing and his manners do 
much toward magnifying the qualities of his 
Prince Albert and black waistcoat; while his Prince 
Albert and black waistcoat, in their turn, fully com- 
pensate the favor by exerting an even greater mag- 
nifying action on the qualities of the bearing and 
manners of their wearer. The net result of the ac- 
tions and reactions of these mutually aggravating 
agencies is a picture of as staggering a respecta- 
bility as was ever honored or justified by the cloth. 

Mr. Hunter is about forty ; a well-dressed, well- 
nourished, handsome man. He is somewhat diffi- 
dent in his bearing, and makes the impression of 
being a stranger and a guest even in his most inti- 
mate spheres. 

Mr. Sam Higgins should be noted with care. 
He is 22 years of age, of medium stature, and is 
dressed in his newest holiday attire — a very stiff- 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 3 

looking, ill-fitting, cheap appearing affair at its 
best. He is awkzvard in his movements; is con- 
scious of the defect; and is making a continual ef- 
fort to overcome it. The young man appears 
decidedly undernourished. His body is lean and 
soft; his face thin and anemic. He has delicate and 
handsome features. But there is no fire in his eye, 
and but little energy to his chin and nostrils. He 
has a fine forehead; not expressive, it is true, of 
that superior intelligence which comprehends wide 
relations, which calculates and constructs, but of 
that, at least, which discriminates and appreciates. 
Found by candle-light in a garret with writing ma- 
terials, he might be taken for a poet; in a beautiful 
library looking out into a garden, with a good 
kitchen and a couple of servants down stairs, it is 
not improbable that he might be a poet. In fact, 
however, born and raised as he has been in a back 
alley, with the foremanship in a canning establish- 
ment as his highest goal in life; and a directorate 
in The Society for the Suppression of Vice } or the 
superintendentship in a Sunday School as his dim 
and distant ideal — he is what he is : an unsophisti- 
cated and level bit of humanity ; capable perhaps, 
when fully aroused, to a short, spasmodic effort; 
but, in the long run, too weak to withstand the 
stress and strain and struggle of a strenuous and 



4 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

struggling world; without the advantages either of 
the cunning of the beast or the superior intelligence 
of man. 

Fiedler. 

That's right. Take off your coat. It is rather 
warm here. There is no hurry. We have a whole 
day to make the calls. 

Hunter. 
Am I assigned any special calls ? 

Fiedler. 

No; Mrs. Hunch and Mr. Blake are going down 
Amity Lane. You might take a stroll with me 
along the lower sections, if you have a mind to. 

Hunter. 

Of course. I should be glad to. And in the 
evening at my house. [As Sam Higgins disappears 
through the door.] A good boy that Sam. A 
first class young fellow. 

Enter Dr. Merril, a clean, wiry-looking young- 
ster of forty-some. As he enters with a rushy he 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 5 

overlooks the baskets in front of the door, stumbles 
over them, makes a spring to nearly the centre of 
the room } and thus regains his balance. 

Dr. Merril. 
Hello! What in the — What's that? 

Fiedler. 

Christmas dinners for some of our deserving 
cases. A great advance this, Doctor, over the old 
Christmas dinner, where those people would be 
gathered around large tables, like cattle around a 
trough. We make them feel that they are human 
beings. We let them eat their Christmas dinner in 
their own time, at their own homes. Let them 
enjoy it in their own way, and in the fullness of 
their hearts offer thanks. 

Dr. Merril. 

No wonder I stumbled over it. I never could 
get over the "deserving cases." But when you 
string on to them the fullness of heart, the offering 
of thanks and all the rest of it — that simply stag- 
gers me ; my fall is inevitable. 



6 the quandary. act i. 

Fiedler. 

Not at all, Dr. Merril; not at all. You take 
for instance that young woman down Amity Lane. 
She was rescued from the lowest depths of the 
abyss. Think of what she was and what she is 
now I Has she not good reason to be thankful ? 

Dr. Merril. 
What is she doing? 

Fiedler. 

For the present she is taking out work home — 
finishing clothes — sewing in buttons and so forth, 
you know. In a year or two we may be able to 
procure for her the position of a cook or chamber- 
maid, or one of general housework, in some decent 
home. The woman earned last week four dollars, 
which paid for her board and lodging. Honest 
four dollars they were ! 

Dr. Merril. 
Very. 

Fiedler. 
The woman is leading an honest and honorable 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 7 

existence — isn't that good reason for her to be 
thankful ? 



Dr. Merril. 

There, there ! That's going a bit too far ! When 
you say honest, Mr. Fiedler, I agree with you — I 
more than agree with you ! A plant may be said 
to be leading an honest — merely honest — exist- 
ence. But a horse is something more than merely 
honest. It is actively honest, dynamically honest; 
it is honest plus a number with a row of zeros the 
length of this room. In order for the horse to re- 
main merely honest, it would have to break the 
harness, smash the wagon, kill the driver and 
commit a large number of other generally-recog- 
nized and well-established dishonest acts. I say, 
on the question of honesty I more than agree with 
you. The woman is leading the honest existence 
not merely of a plant, but of that of a horse. But 
when you assert that her existence is honorable to 
boot, you have me on the mat. For by no amount of 
mental effort am I enabled to associate the honor- 
able with the horse — I, who at a pinch can tack on 
the honorable to a Member of Congress, and in a 
great emergency even to a city councilman ! 

Enter Sam Higgins with more baskets. 



8 the quandary. act i. 

Hunter. 

Sam, take the baskets a little further away from 
the door. Dr. Merril stumbled over them and 
nearly fell. 

Sam proceeds to move the baskets. 

Dr. Merril. 

Higgins — hello ! You look spick and span in 
your new Sunday clothes. How is father? 

Sam. 

Thank you, sir. He is a great deal better. He 
was out this morning. Says he is feeling fine. 

Hunter. 

Come here, Sam. [Sam approaches him with 
much deference.] I am going to make you a little 
Christmas present, Sam. A raise of two dollars a 
week. You will now be getting twelve dollars a 
week. 

Dr. Merril. 

Stop, Hunter. Mr. Fiedler, stop him before 
he robs this youth of his stock of honesty! Be a 
man, Sam ! Don't permit your employer to de- 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. * 

prive you of your one valuable heritage — honesty. 
Strike ! Strike against this foul attempt upon your 
virtue ! This raise in wages opens before you the 
road to a thousand temptations: the moving pic- 
ture palace and the theatre gape open before you ; 
the dancing hall allures you ; a surfeit of food en- 
riches your blood and causes a plethora of spirit; 
you will read novels and gaze at statues ; the gates 
of the inferno are gaping open for your reception ! 
And all that in the office of the Society for the 
Suppression of Vice!— Mr. Fiedler, how can you 
permit it? 

Fiedler. 
Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. 

Hunter. 

Never mind him, Sam. Twelve dollars a week 
isn't any too much for you, eh, Sam? 

Sam. 
No, sir. Thank you, sir; thank you. 

Dr. Merril. 
Twelve dollars a week for a canning-house em- 



10 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

ployee — it is unheard of! You are ruining our 
industries, Hunter! You are destroying the em- 
ployers' incentive to employ. The country will be 
without canning houses. You are taking the "com- 
pensation for abstinence" and forging it into a key 
to unlock the gates of hell. Presently you'll not 
have a penny for the suppression of vice, and that 
at a time when the country will be rampant with 
a thousand temptations of your own make. Mr. 
Fiedler, the cause of virtue is at stake ! You can- 
not, you must not permit it to go on ! 

Sam. 

I thank you again, Mr. Hunter. I can only 
promise you to do my best, as I have always done. 

Hunter. 

I know you have done your best, Sam. And 
what is more, you haven't been a loafer and a 
spendthrift. At a time when other boys have been 
spending their earnings on drink, and worse things 
than drink, you have been helping your father in- 
stead. And you have contributed your mite to- 
ward the cause of the suppression of vice — some- 
thing that very few young men will do. 



act i. the quandary. 1 1 

Dr. Merril. 

[Approaches Sam, raises his chin with his hands 
and looks intently into his face.] Are you ill, Sam? 

Sam. 

I'm all right. Only here, sometimes. [Puts his 
hand on the top of his head.] A feeling of weight 
— as if something were pressing on it — 

Dr. Merril. 

Very well, Sam. I shall look you over the next 
time I see you. You may stop in at my office if 
you like. Or — let me see. I shall be over to see 
your father this afternoon, and I may take a look 
at you. Tell your father that I am coming over, 
will you ? 

Sam. 

Thank you. I'll tell him. You will pardon 
me, there are a few more baskets. [Exit.] 

Dr. Merril. 

[He pulls out from his breast-pocket a folded 
paper and hands it to Fiedler.] My annual re- 
port of the number of cases treated, the number of 
calls, and so on. 



12 the quandary. act i. 

Fiedler. 



Thank you. 



Dr. Merril. 



Well? What about tonight? Are we really 
going to have a good time? 

Hunter. 

Yes, indeed — at my house. 

Fiedler. 

An excellent idea. Young and old will enjoy 
themselves, and the good cause will profit by their 
enjoyment. 

Hunter. 

Our Christmas entertainment of last year netted 
us over $1,000. We should be able to double that 
amount tonight. [After a pause.] But don't you 
know, I suspect Mr. Blake is a bit sore that the 
entertainment wasn't arranged in one of his hotels. 
He will get over it, no doubt, when he thinks better 
of the affair. For my own part I am convinced 
that the matter stands best as it does. What do 
you think ? 



act i. the quandary. 13 

Fiedler. 

I am sure of it. In a hotel — that would hardly 
do. No ! It wouldn't do at all I The affair bears 
quite a different aspect when arranged in a private 
house — a dwelling — a home ! A home, mind you I 

Dr. Merril. 
Ever so much more respectable in appearance. 

Fiedler. 

That is the point, gentlemen ! That is the point I 
The same affair arranged in a private house looks 
so much better; it appears so much more respect- 
able ; it seems to bear the aspect of the home. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Approaches the desk, opens a large volume and 
turns over the pages.] I admire the beauty and 
the richness of our tongue. Even such an ill-sound- 
ing verb as "to seem" has three distinct and sepa- 
rate respectable synonyms — to seem, to look, to 
appear. And you have exhausted them all, Mr. 
Fiedler. You are to be envied for your ready 
knowledge of our language. [Closes the volume 
with a hang.] The Up-to-Date Encyclopedia of 



14 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

the English Language. The most complete dic- 
tionary extant. 

Fiedler. 

[Flattered.] It is our specialty, Doctor. It is 
by virtue of the word that we are enabled to ma- 
nipulate the spirit of man. What morphine and 
chloroform are to you, the word is to us. 

Dr. Merril. 
Very true; very true. 

Fiedler. 

But to return to the subject — the entertainment 
of this evening. The only objection to having it 
in a private house is the amount of trouble to which 
it puts the housewife. Mrs. Hunter — 

Hunter. 

Not the least, not the least! I assure you, the 
girl is as happy as a lark over the affair. [Rises 
and gets hold of Dr. Merril* s arm.] But what use 
is there in explaining it to him, Merril? An old 
bachelor like he could never understand it. 



act i. the quandary. 15 

Fiedler. 

You are not giving us sufficient credit for our 
knowledge of human nature, Mr. Hunter. Don't 
forget that human nature is our business, our spe- 
cialty. 

Hunter. 

No, Mr. Fiedler, that is something you cannot 
know. You must experience it in order to know it. 
Merril, tell him how you felt six months after your 
marriage. 

Dr. Merril. 

Don't harp upon my sore, Hunter, it's cruel. 

Hunter. 

Ah, my boy, but my wife has asked your wife 
how she felt six months after her marriage. Do 
you know what she said? 

Dr. Merril. 
What? 

Hunter. 

She said she wasn't sure she has been married 
quite yet six months. 



16 the quandary. act i. 

Dr. Merril. 

What? Oh, the women! Such an imputation 
against a man who has been doing his level best 
towards his wife for ten years ! 

Hunter. 

All the same — this is just how / feel. The six 
months seem like six days. 

Fiedler. 

You are indeed a fortunate man, Mr. Hunter. 
A happy marriage widens and elevates man's life. 
It opens his heart to all mankind. It kindles in 
him the spirit of salvation, arouses his utmost sym- 
pathies for the sufferings of his fellows, as well as 
his profoundest disgust for their follies and their 
crimes ! 

Dr. Merril. 

Here, now ! That I cannot stand — I must speak. 
Mr. Fiedler, when you discourse learnedly about 
hell and Heaven I always maintain a respectful 
silence. It is your particular field of action ; there 
you are at home, and I a complete stranger. There- 
fore I am but in duty bound to listen with respect. 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 17 

But the moment you speak of a happy marriage — 
there / am at home, and I beg the chair for a point 
of order. Here stands a man whose word the 
court sees no reason to doubt. Upon his own testi- 
mony he has lived the last six months in a state of 
anaesthesia so profound, that the six months seemed 
to him like six days. As for myself, I can only 
corroborate his testimony by informing the jury 
that I doubt whether the ten years of my own happy 
married life have at all begun. Such being the 
case, tell me in the name of common sense, in what 
manner does a happy marriage widen and elevate 
a man's life? With all my respect for the gentle- 
man on the floor, I protest against such a mon- 
strous perversion of facts ! I maintain that when 
a man is in such a state of unconsciousness that six 
months seem to him like six days, his life, far from 
being widened and elevated, is in fact narrowed and 
debased ; and that his heart under those conditions 
is not open, but tightly shut against all the rest of 
mankind ! 

Fiedler. 
True love is the pinacle of happiness. 

Dr. Merril. 
It is the happiness of sleep, of unconsciousness, 



18 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

the negative happiness of oblivion ; and the worst of 
it is that its contagion is so powerful, that its mere 
contemplation has turned a perfectly respectable 
Christian clergyman into heathen adorer of Nir- 
vana ! 

Fiedler. 

Are you not truly happy, Mr. Hunter? 
[Hunter does not reply } but paces the room in 
silence.] 

Dr. Merril. 
There — you see? 

Hunter. 

[Hurridly.] Yes — of course. But — Shall I con- 
fess it? It is a happiness not perhaps untinctured 
by a certain sense of pain, of — 

Dr. Merril. 

There you are! Do you know what it is? It 
is the objective reaction against the subjective anni- 
hilation; the rebellion of the protoplasm against 
the destruction of the ego. 



act i. the quandary. 19 

Hunter. 

[After a pause.] Nonsense! It isn't that. 

Fiedler. 
What then ? 

Hunter. 

[JVith much hesitation; like an amateur in the 
art of lying.] — Mr. Feidler, you know what this 
work — the suppression of vice — has meant to me — 

Fiedler. 

I assure you, Mr. Hunter, we are not unmindful 
of the sacrifices you have been making. As presi- 
dent of the Association I can testify that — 

Hunter. 

No ; it isn't that. The few dollars I donated now 
and then — 

Fiedler. 
Few dollars ! Other men would call it a fortune ! 



20 the quandary. act i. 

Hunter. 

However it be — I haven't really deprived my- 
self of anything. What would I not give to rid 
humanity of that monstrous plague — the social 
evil — 

Fiedler. 

And to cure mankind of the diseases of the soul 
and body which the social evil has inflicted upon it. 
I said the soul and body, Dr. Merril. Mind you, 
I include the body. 

Dr. Merril. 

Don't ! Better leave the body alone, Mr. Fiedler, 
or there'll be a jurisdictional fight in the union. 
Give the devil his due — leave the body to the doc- 
tors. 

Fiedler. 

[After contemplating Hunter, who continues to 
pace the room restlessly.] What is Mrs. Hunter's 
attitude towards our work? 

Hunter. 
[Confused.'] — That is the point. How would 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. 21 

you account for it? She does not seem to appre- 
ciate its importance. 

Dr. Merril. 

I account for it very simply. The woman is 
still under the influence of anaesthesia. 

Fiedler. 

Not at all, sir, not at all ! Mr. Hunter, you must 
make allowances for human nature. She is a young 
woman, in the enjoyment of her honeymoon, so to 
say. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Approaches Fiedler and shakes his hand.] 
Shake, old boy. I am glad you agree with me at 
last. Just what I said — a plain case of anaesthesia. 

Fiedler. 

Yes, Dr. Merril, but the trouble with you is that 
your expressions do not appear to — 

Dr. Merril. 

— Do not seem to, do not look as if — Phew! 
What a flow of language! * 



22 the quandary. act i. 

Fiedler. 

[Abandons Dr. Merril with a sweep of his arm 
as a hopeless case.] You must have patience, Mr. 
Hunter. A little patience. Wait. 

Hunter. 

Mr. Fiedler, I wish yon would take her in hand a 
little. You know how to go about that sort of 
thing much better than I do. 

Fiedler. 
Gladly. I shall employ my utmo st influence. 

Hunter. 

Thank you ; and I can promise you that once con- 
verted, she will prove a most valuable asset to our 
cause. Her sympathies are unbounded; she has a 
wonderful intelligence; she is — 

Dr. Merril. 

Oh, come! You are wasting words on Mr. 
Fiedler. You know very well that in the matter of 
adjectives and attributives he can beat you to a 
pulp. As for myself, be charitable and allow a 
little credit to my imagination: tell me that she is 



ACT I. THE QUANDARY. - 23 

the most perfect woman of the three tenses, and I 
will promise you to imagine the rest. — Hello! 
There's Mr. Blake ! 

Enter Mr. Blake , a gentleman of fifty-odd. Past 
the climax of a strong bulldog career, he is just 
beginning to slide down the hill of life with a grunt 
and a snarl. Witness his square jaw, which trem- 
bles when his passions are aroused; the lower eye- 
lids, which are sagging down — "baggy," as the 
ladies call it; his left leg, which is rather weak, 
and his right, zvhich is rather stiff; and the color 
of his lips — a livid purple with patches of white. 
He puffs as he enters; such puffing, coming from a 
gentleman of his stamp, being generally believed 
to betoken great prosperity — the mark of the fin- 
ished gentleman ; in which last superstition there 
is perhaps much truth. 

The usual "good-morning" is exchanged. 

Hunter. 

[Aside to Dr. Merril.] Merril, [ wish you 
would help me to get her interested in this work. 

Dr. Merril. 
Why? 



24 the quandary. act i. 

Hunter. 

Oh, you don't understand. — I must — she must 
be interested — in something — 

Mr. Blake. 

Mrs. Hunch not here yet? I hope I shan't 
spend the morning here waiting for the ladies. 

Fiedler. 
I expect her here every minute. 

Mr. Blake. 

Well, Mr. Hunter — how about your wife? 
Aren't you going to initiate her in the good work? 

Hunter. 

I hope tonight's entertainment will be her first 
step. I expect her here every minute. You might 
try and see what you could do in the way of getting 
her interested. 

Mr. Blake. 

I suppose she is not acquainted with the evils 
prevailing in a large city. I understand she comes 
from a small town? 



act i. the quandary. 25 

Hunter. 

Well — yes and no. You know, she had been 
married in Chicago. After the death of her hus- 
band, some seven years ago, she retired to that 
small Western town — a mere village. It was 
there that I first met her, on my tour to study the 
methods of vice-suppression in the Central and 
Western States. 

Mr. Blake. 

It takes patience to stick it out for six or seven 
years in an out of the way place like that. 

Hunter. 

Well, you know how it is. Her health was 
rather poor, and her funds low. She obtained 
there a position of a sort of assistant to the school- 
mistress, and when the old woman died she took 
her place. She became so attached to the little 
place, and the school, and the children, that I had 
quite some difficulty in persuading her to leave. 

Mr. Blake. 

Ah, she was a schoolmistress, was she ! 

Enter Mrs. Hunch and her daughter Clara. 



26 THE QUANDARY. ACT I. 

Mrs. Hunch is a woman of fifty, perhaps a little 
over. Her attire of wretched ostentation be- 
speaks that subtle knowledge of handling the tailor, 
which is born of a struggle against a genteel pov- 
erty. Her daughter is a girl of about twenty; 
weak, anemic and pretty. A romanticist would 
associate her in his mind with the clinging vine; a 
biologist with the white shoots which a potato 
sends out in a dark cellar. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

There we are. I hope you weren't waiting very 
long, Mr. Blake? [Drops into a chair.] Ugh! I'm 
out of breath! It is dreadfully warm! Sit down, 
Clara, rest yourself. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Moving a chair for Clara.] If you please, Miss 
Hunch. 

Clara. 

[Sitting down.] Thank you. What a warm 
Christmas ! I remember last year — it was so 
cold! These changes in the weather are very un- 
healthy. I always have a headache on a day like 
this. 



act i. the quandary. 27 

Mrs. Hunch. 

It is your age, my dear. When people are young 
and have nothing else to think about, they com- 
plain of headaches. Just wait till you get to be 
of my age, my dear; you won't think of headaches 
then. 

Enter Sam. 

. Sam. 

Good morning, Mrs. Hunch. [Approaches 
Clara cautiously.] How do you do, Miss Hunch? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Sam, good morning. Are we supposed to carry 
all those baskets? 

Sam. 

[Beside Clara, who has just softly answered 
his (< how do you do."] Yes, ma'am. I am here 
to help you — if you don't mind. 

Enter Mrs. Hunter, simply and tastefully 
dressed. She is 32 years of age; has exquisite 
features, very intelligent eyes and thin wrinkles, 
indicative of an intensity of disposition, which, 
however, do not detract from her beauty. 



28 THE QUANDARY, ACT I. 



Mrs. Hunter. 

Good morning. [To her husband.] Have I 
kept you waiting? Pardon me, dear. The day is 
so bright and beautiful that I could not resist the 
temptation of a walk. 

Clara. 

[To Sam, while the attention of the others is 
engaged by Mrs. Hunter's entrance.] How have 
you been, Mr. Higgins? Why don't you stop 
down sometimes ? 

Sam. 

[Embarrassed.] Thank you, Miss Hunch. I 
was going to, this afternoon. May I ? 

Clara. 

[With a look towards her mother.] Yes, come 
— about two o'clock. 

Sam. 

Miss Hunch, would you mind if — if I brought 
along a little Christmas gift for you? Only some 
flowers — 



act i. the quandary. 29 

Clara. 
This is ever so nice of you, Mr. Higgins. 
Mrs. Hunter. 

[Approaches Clara and kisses her on the cheek.] 
Good morning, dear. How are you feeling to- 
day? Sam — you here? How are you? 

Clara. 

Thank you; quite well; only a little headache. 

Sam. 

[Flaunting the words awkwardly on Clara's at- 
tention.] Thank you, Mrs, Hunter. I ought to 
feel very happy today. Mr. Hunter has just made 
me a very handsome Christmas present. He's 
raised my wages two dollars a week. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

He has? Fine! And you shall get something 
from me tonight besides. Don't fail to come. 
Clara, you are coming over, of course. 

Clara. 

[To her mother.] We are going to Mrs. Hun- 
ter's tonight, aren't we? 



30 the quandary. act i. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Our annual Christmas night entertainment for 
the benefit of the Society — of course ! 

Fiedler. 

[While Hunter is removing his wife's shawl, 
and helping her with her coat.] Yes, Mrs. Hunter, 
a very beautiful day. All the greater is the out- 
rage to one's sense of decency to see it profaned, as 
it is in this city. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Profaned? What has happened? 

Fiedler. 

Yes, profaned — the word isn't a bit too strong. 
Why, one cannot pass a street without encounter- 
ing on all hands the most offensive sights. [With 
a deep sigh.] And this is how they celebrate 
Christmas: all the beer saloons are open and 
crowded with people ! 

Dr. Merril. 

[Aside to Hunter.] Now watch the conversion 
— he is taking her in hand. 



act i. the quandary. 31 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[With a little laugh.] And the soda-water shops, 
too. Don't forget the soda-water, Mr. Fiedler. 

Fiedler. 
[Pleasantly staggered.] Soda water! 

Dr. Merril. 

Yes, Mr. Fiedler, even soda water ! I am here 
to testify that neither I nor any of my ethical col- 
leagues in this city have written a prescription for 
soda water in years. And yet they have been 
selling that beverage on hot summer Sundays in 
the drug stores by the tankful, under the specious 
pretense of dispensing drugs. 

Mr. Blake. 

Permit me to remark, Dr. Merril, that the sale 
of beverages in decent places is not a menace to 
morality. But the beer saloons and fake hotels 
— that is a different thing! Mr. Fiedler spoke 
about the beer saloons. 

Fiedler. 
I am inclined to agree with Mr. Blake. 



32 the quandary. act i. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

As I was coming down the street I walked be- 
hind two men, and from their conversation I could 
make out that they were city councilmen. You 
won't believe it, Mr. Fiedler — they both entered 
a beer saloon. 

Mr. Blake. 

The liquor they are selling in those saloons — 
swill ! poison — unfit for hogs ! 

Dr. Merril. 

They were city councilmen, to be sure ! 

Mr. Blake. 

I am not in the least surprised. After having 
reduced the saloon license, and refused to take a 
hand in banishing the houses of ill fame, it is only 
natural to expect that our city fathers would by 
their personal example give a moral lesson to 
the people of this city. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

This is not a civilized city; it is a barbarous 
den. — a — a Monte Carlo ! 



Act I. The Quandary. 33 

Fiedler. 
A Gomorrha ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You should have seen the streets ! All the mov- 
ing picture palaces have their doors gaping open, 
ready to receive the heathen multitudes. 

Fiedler. 
A veritable midday saturnalia ! 

Dr. Merril. 

And this is only a beginning! No sooner will 
the sun go down than the dancing halls will throw 
their doors open, and the theatres will be jammed 
and crammed with people. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Perfectly horrifying! And the sun still shines, 
and the gentle breezes have not turned into all- 
destroying hurricanes ; and it is not improbable that 
the earth — even the earth — continues in its course 
around the sun so as to maintain the order of the 
seasons. 



34 The Quandary. Act I. 

Dr. Merril. 

Not improbable did you say? It is almost cer- 
tain ! My wife has already hinted at an appro- 
priation for a spring hat. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[To her husband, playfully.] Do you hear that, 
dear? Don't you think you have a good wife? 

Fiedler. 

Mrs. Hunter, I gather from your remarks that 
you are disposed to view this matter in a super- 
ficial light. Just look here a minute. [Takes her 
gently by the arm and approaches the lithographs 
on the rear mall.] Do you see this? [Points at 
"Step Oner] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Studying the picture.] A homely girl, dressed 
in bad taste, eating ice cream with a handsome and 
well dressed young fellow, amid the luxuriant 
tropical verdancy of a down-town ice cream par- 
lor. 



Act I. The Quandary. 35 

Fiedler. 

Very true. And viewing it superficially it looks 
almost like an innocent amusement? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[With affected anxiety.] Mr. Fiedler, you speak 
as if the ice cream contained taratoxicon poison. 
Is it poisoned ice cream, Doctor? 

Dr. Merril. 

You must ask Mr. Fiedler — he made the ice 
cream. 

Fiedler. 

A most powerful poison, Mrs. Hunter, I as- 
sure you ; it is a poison which is destructive of the 
spirit. Spiritual poison, madam! 

Dr. Merril. 

That settles it. He has transferred ice cream 
into the domain of spiritual toxicology. 

Fiedler. 

It ruins the soul, Mrs. Hunter. And here is the 
proof of it: Step One, the girl is partaking of ice 
cream; step nine — Look at step nine, Mrs. Hunter, 



36 The Quandary. Act I. 

and tell me what it is, if you please. [Views his 
audience in triumph.} 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Examining "Step Nine. }} ] It is a grave-yard. 
Then the poor girl died from eating the ice cream 
after all? 

Fiedler. 

Madam, it is potters' field that you are looking 
at! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

How terrible! Do they bury people who die 
from eating ice cream in potters' field in this city? 

Fiedler. 

No, Mrs. Hunter, no. You are laboring under 
a complete misapprehension ! If you follow me 
carefully a minute, you will grasp the situation 
clearly. Step One, the girl is eating ice cream with 
a young man. Step Two, they are at the entrance 
of a moving picture palace. Step Three, they are 
whirling in a giddy and sensuous dance, in one of 
the down-town dancing halls, where they are pos- 



Act I. The Quandary. 37 

sibly selling liquor downstairs. And now we come 
to Step Four. What are they doing in Step Four, 
Mrs. Hunter? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

It appears they are drinking red lemonade from 
rather small glasses. 

Dr. Merril. 

Hear her — lemonade ! And Mr. Fiedler its 
author! Mrs. Hunter, permit me to inform you 
that Mr. Fiedler is the originator of the idea that 
had inspired the artist who executed these pictures. 
Tell me, please, does it at all stand to reason that 
Mr. Fiedler would have filled the glasses with red 
lemonade? 

Fiedler. 

Aha ! I thought so ! She has been laboring 
under a misapprehension. [With a triumphant 
sweep of his arm he shoves up the cuff from, his 
right wrist and taps "Step Four" with his finger- 
tips; then with surpassing solemnity.] Permit me 
to inform you, Mrs. Hunter, that it is not red 
lemonade, but plain whisky made into cocktails ! 
[Assumes a heroic attitude.] 



38 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Blake. 

And rotten whisky at that! The kind they 
poison people with in the saloons and fake hotels. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I submit to Mr. Blake's superior knowledge. 

Blake glares at her, then turns away, with a 
significant nod to Mrs. Hunch. 

Fiedler. 

But now we pass on to Step Five. That is plain 
enough. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Yes, quite plain enough. The fellow is making 
love to the girl. Ah, well ! It is going to turn 
out a prosaic affair. The man will marry the girl 
and live happy ever afterwards. 

Fiedler. 

[Emphatically.] Nothing of the sort, Mrs. 
Hunter ! Nothing of the sort ! Here, here is the 
sinister ending. Step Six, the girl is in a brothel. 



Act I. The Quandary. 39 

Mrs. Huntep 
Why, Mr. Fiedler? 

Dr. Merril. 

She asks why! What else would you expect, 
after the girl had eaten ice cream, had gone to a 
moving picture palace, danced the turkey trot, 
drank Mr. Fiedler's cocktails and been made love 
to by a man? It's no use, Mr. Fiedler, woman's 
mind never did understand why the eating of an 
apple could result in a curse upon the human race. 
What more could we expect from a rib ! 

Fiedler. 

[Continuing.] Step Seven, she is plying her 
trade on the streets of the city in a dark night, in 
a downpour of rain. Step Eight, she is flinging 
herself from the bridge into the roaring river. 
And, finally, Step Nine, is her everlasting rest in 
potters' field. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[To her husband.] Shall we cut out the ice 
cream tonight, dear? 



40 The Quandary. Act I. 

Dr. Merril. 

[To Fiedler.] Now then. Do you see what 
you have done ? 

Fiedler. 

[Disconcerted.] Mrs. Hunter, it appears to me 
that you entirely misunderstood me ; I — 

Dr. Merril. 

Oh, stop that! Stop that! You'll spoil it all; if 
you keep it up for another five minutes Mrs. Hun- 
ter will cut out the oysters, then the chicken, and 
then the cider; and we shall go home from the 
entertainment and supper surcharged with the 
virtue of red lemonade, and bursting with the 
morality of vice crusade talk. 

Fiedler. 

[Wiping the perspiration engendered by his ef- 
fort.] Hem — m — Those baskets — Are you ready, 
Mrs. Hunch? You may run down Amity Lane, 
just around the corner, with a couple of these, with 
Mr. Blake. 



Act I. The Quandary. 41 

Mrs. Hunch. 

I am dreadfully fatigued. What would you say 
to initiating my girl into the work? [To her daugh- 
ter.] My dear, there's nothing so good for a 
headache as a little walk in the fresh air. I dare- 
say you never did see what those people of the 
underworld really looked like. Mr. Blake, you 
won't object if Clara took my place? I daresay 
she'll be far better company than I am for a con- 
firmed old bachelor like you. 

Mr. Blake. 
[Bowing low.} I shall be delighted, I'm sure. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Significantly to Clara.] Remember, dear, it's 
for your own happiness. 

Clara. 

[Goes forward reluctantly and tries to lift a 
basket.] How heavy! [Directs an appealing look 
to Sam.] 



42 The Quandary. Act I. 

Sam. 

If you please, Mr. Blake, I'll carry the baskets 
for you. 

Mrs. Hunter ) holding on to her husband's arm, 
takes in the situation keenly. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Oh, that's all right, Sam. Mr. Blake is strong 
enough. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Taking two baskets.} Thank you, Sam. I'll 
carry them myself. The labor of love, you know. 

Exeunt Blake and Clara. 

Fiedler. 

Sam, hadn't you, too, best run down with a 
couple of these? 

Sam. 
Yes, sir. 

Fiedler hands him an address. Exit Sam. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Mr. Blake is in the hotel business, isn't he? 



Act I. The Quandary. 43 

Hunter. 

Yes, dear. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[ To Dr. MerriL] I was just wondering whether 
the hotel business was quite compatible with the 
strong vice suppressing proclivities of its owner. 
What do you say, Doctor ? 

Dr. Merril. 

Some twenty years ago I knew something about 
the incompatibility of certain drugs with certain 
other drugs; I have forgotten all about it by this 
time. But as to the incompatibilities of certain 
businesses with certain temperamental proclivities 

I n ever even pretended to know anything about 

it. I shall be pleased, however, to refer you to 
Mr. Fiedler. 

Fiedler. 

[In reply to Mrs. Hunter's questioning look.] 
Well— it's just this : the fact is that the suppression 
of saloons and disorderly houses cannot really hurt 
a decent hotel business. 



44 The Quandary. Act I. 

Dr. Merril. 

No! It cannot possibly hurt it! I perfectly 
agree with Mr. Fiedler. Can it, Hunter? 

Hunter. 

[Thoroughly disgusted.} No! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

How modest those men are ! [After a pause, to 
Mrs. Hunch.} I wonder why Mr. Blake never 
married? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Ah, well. Those rich bachelors are not in a 
hurry. They have other things to occupy their 
minds with. Besides — they do marry in the end, 
when the right party comes along. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Dr. Merril, as a physician, do you think those 
late marriages are quite wholesome — from a moral 
viewpoint? 



Act I. The Quandary. 45 

Dr. Merril. 

I am a general practitioner, Mrs. Hunter, and 
can only refer you to the specialist. [Pointing to 
Fiedler.] We live in an age of specialties. 

Fiedler. 
I think I can answer your query, Mrs. Hunter, 
by saying that "lead us not into temptation" is our 
daily prayer. 

Dr. Merril. 

By temptation you mean marriage, of course? 

Fiedler. 

[With all the weight of his respectability.] No, 
sir ! No, sir 1 I mean nothing of the sort, sir ! Just 
the contrary, sir! I mean that the way to avoid 
temptation is to marry as early— [He suddenly 
stops to consider.] Well— as early as circum- 
stances would permit. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

This is the man's viewpoint, of course. But 
to my mind it seems that as far as the woman is 
concerned, it is certainly of advantage to her to 
marry a man who is past his period of philandering. 



46 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
What do you mean, Mrs. Hunch? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

It is simple enough. You know as well as I do 
what those young men are. As long as they are 
unmarried — God forgive them; but God help 
their young wives when they are married! If I 
were to live it over again I wouldn't marry a young 
man for a fortune ! 

Hunter. 

But they are not all alike, Mrs. Hunch. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

No; some are worse than others. A lot of 
roosters all! No, thanks; no young man for my 
girl — Not if I can help it ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

For instance — If you were especially interested 
in the welfare of a young girl — Would you ad- 
vise her to marry a man of Mr. Blake's type? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Without a moment's hesitation. 



Act I. The Quandary. 47 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Do you think, a young girl could get herself to 
love a man like Mr. Blake? 



- Mrs. Hunch. 

Oh, bosh ! I have little patience with that sort 
of sentimental nonsense! 

Fiedler. 

[Uncomfortable.] Pardon me for interrupting. 
— Those baskets- 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Just a minute, Mr. Fiedler. [Presses her hus- 
band's arm nervously.] Are you quite convinr 
Mrs. Hunch, that Mr. Blake is, the proper man to 
make a young girl happy? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

God bless you, dear! What a bunch of old- 
fashioned sentimentality you are! Why, what's 
the matter with Mr. Blake? 



48 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Well — for one thing, he is — old. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

What nonsense ! The girl won't have to wear 
her life away with jealousy and all that. I dare- 
say Mr. Blake is all through sowing his wild oats! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But, Mrs. Hunch, haven't you noticed, he is — 
he is — weak in his legs. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Rises, approaches Mrs. Hunter, and slaps her 
playfully on the cheek.] Ha, ha! What a little 
dear you are ! Weak in his legs ! — Ha, ha ! When 
you acepted Mr. Hunter you didn't stop to con- 
sider his legs, did you? It wouldn't be quite the 
right thing for a young girl to think about — Would 
it, Mr. Fiedler? 

Fiedler. 
Well — I must say — it would be rather indelicate. 



Act I. The Quandary. 49 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Nervous and undecided.] Pardon me, Mrs. 
Hunch — that wasn't exactly what I meant to say. 
Let me see — how shall I put it? [With a gesture 
indicative of impatience with herself.] Oh, yes. 
I meant to say that Mr. Blake didn't appear to 
me to be — in quite the best state of health. [With 
a sense of relief, to her husband.] Don't you think 
so, dear? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Ha, ha ! Well — I declare ! What do you think 
of that! Not in the best of health — ha, ha ! My 
dear, he's in better health than you or I. I dare- 
say the old rascal will outlive us both ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Dr. Merril, you have known Mr. Blake for quite 
a while; what do you think of it? [Dr. Merril 
is slightly staggered, but quickly rights himself and 
looks nonchalantly at Mrs. Hunter.] Why don't 
you answer, Doctor? [She suddenly loses control 
over herself and raises her voice.] Mr. Blake has 
been a patient of yours, no doubt. Why don't 
you speak, Dr. Merril? 



50 The Quandary. Act I. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Blessing the shades for having lost the capacity 
for blushing or blanching years ago.] What must 
I say, Mrs. Hunter? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Regaining control over herself.) Pardon me, 
Dr. Merril. We shall talk later — Well— I expect 
to see you later in the day. I haven't been feeling 
quite well. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

That reminds me. Clara has been complaining 
of headaches lately. Won't you step in, Doctor, 
sometime this afternoon? 

Dr. Merril. 

Certainly. 

Enter Mr. Coleman, A. B., Ph. D., the exec- 
utive secretary of the Association, a not over-pros- 
perous looking individual of 35. 

Hunter. 
[Eagerly.] Mr. Coleman — how do you do, 



Act I. The Quandary. 51 

sir? Any news? Have you heard from Buenos 
Ayres ? 

Mr. Coleman. 

Not a thing. I think we've had as much of that 
business as is good for us. To make another step 
in that direction — to write another word, to spend 
another cent, would be the height of folly ! 

Fiedler. 

The height of folly! I agree with Mr. Cole- 
man. 

Hunter. 

[Agitated.] But what could have become of 
her? 

Mr. Coleman. 

[Approaches "Step Nine" and taps it with his 
knuckles.] Here, sir, here! 

Hunter. 

[Horrified.] In potters' field! But where? - 
have you any proof? 



52 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Coleman. 

The surest proof, Mr. Hunter — statistical 
proof! Our statistics show clearly that the aver- 
age life of a fallen woman as such is five years. 
I have treated this subject at length in my thesis 
for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy some years 
ago. Five years to a day ! It is now ten years 
since the Higgins girl has run off. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Gracious — the Higgins girl again! 

Mr. Coleman. 

As executive secretary of the Association I wish, 
Mr. Hunter, that you would follow my advice in 
this matter, and consider it as closed. 

Fiedler. 
The only practical course to pursue ! 

W Mr. Coleman. 

Let us consider the matter rationally. [Looks 
•about him.] That fellow Sam is not around? Well 
then. Here is a vain and ignorant girl, an em- 
ployee in your canning establishment. 



Act I. The Quandary. 53 

Hunter. 

Yes, yes — in my canning establishment — ever 
since she was a child ! 

Mr. Coleman. 

Working for as good a wage and under as fair 
conditions — for a better wage, and under fairer 
conditions than she could have obtained anywhere 
else ! I have statistics that will bear that out. Her 
father, as we all know, happens to be a shiftless 
an irresponsible, a brutal person. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

An abandoned drunkard. 

Mr. Coleman. 
An inveterate alcoholic. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[To Dr. Merril, as Mrs. Hunter turns away 
with her hand on her temple.] Everybody seems 
to be having a headache today. 



54 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Coleman. 

He, too, at the time happens to be an employee 
of yours. 

Hunter. 

[Mechanically.] Yes, he, too, an employee of 
mine. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Well, then. The girl is too weak to withstand 
the brutalities of her drunken father; her vanity, 
her thoughtlessness and her ignorance get the best 
of her — 

Fiedler. 
And the innate corruption of her heart — 

Mr. Coleman. 
Yes, and that too, the innate corruption of 
heart — 

Dr. Merril. 

There, now ! They are coining new medical 
terms ! 



Act I. The Quandary. 55 

Fiedler. 

My dear Doctor, they are not medical terms — 
they are moral terms ! Morality, too, has its tech- 
nical terms, Doctor. 

Dr. Merril. 

Then make them at least look respectable; say 
endocarditis, moral endocarditis. Short and sweet. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Dr. Merril, this is not the time for hairsplitting 
over mere technicalities. Where was I? Yes. 
Well, I say, all these things get the best of her, 
she runs off and becomes a prostitute. She is 
neither seen nor heard from for nearly ten years. 
According to our statistics she must be dead; she 
is therefore dead, and that settles it. 

Hunter. 

Mr. Coleman, you cannot enter into my feelings 
regarding this matter. The girl was — [He stops 
short and looks imploringly towards Dr. Merril] 



56 The Quandary. Act I. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Hurriedly.] The girl was an employee of his, 
you see. 

Hunter. 

Yes — an employee of mine; and her father 
too, and her brother Sam — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But how could you help her running away, dear? 
Besides, as you hear — she's dead. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Well, I must be going. How about your annual 
report, Doctor? 

Dr. Merril. 
Duly turned in. Mr. Fiedler has it. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Very well then. Good morning. [Goes towards 
the door.} 



Act I. The Quandary. 57 

Hunter. 

But the proof — the proof of her death ! 

Mr. Coleman. 
Statistics, sir, statistics! 

Hunter. 

[Making a stride towards him.] But, Mr. Cole- 
man — 

Exit Coleman. 

Dr. Merril. 

Oh, come, Hunter! Why won't you admit a 
charitable probability in the girl's favor? Give 
her the benefit of your doubt and leave her alone ! 
Grant that by the one act of her death the girl 
foiled a dozen Associations for the Suppression 
of Vice; slipped out of the velvet hold of all the 
sweet charity in the country; skipped the traps 
of our efficient police forces; baffled the majesty 
of the law; turned her back on the photographer 
and the professional moralist; and has discarded 
our soul-foods, our Christmas dinners, honest em- 
ployment at four dollars a week with the brilliant 
prospects of climbing to the heights of a menial 



58 The Quandary. Act I. 

servant; and all the rest of it. It is very humiliat- 
ing, to be sure, to have to admit that the best ef- 
forts of the best, the most virtuous people in the 
country couldn't keep one weak girl out of the 
hereafter and down to an honest job in a can- 
nery — but what will you do? With the advance 
of civilization the resurrection of the dead — even 
the statistically dead — has become quite an impos- 
sibility. Cheer up ! Our benevolent employers 
will not lack employees, and our Christmas din- 
ners [kicks a basket with his foot] will not lack 
eaters. 

Enter Blake and Clara. 

Fiedler. 
Well? How is our woman on Amity Lane? 

Mr. Blake. 

Dead drunk, thank you. 

Fiedler. 
[With intense indignation.] Drunk! 

Dr. Merril. 
Mr. Blake didn't say drunk, Mr. Fiedler; he 



Act I. The Quandary. 59 

said dead drunk. Our one white hope, and she 
had virtue enough left in her to get dead drunk 
and so spare herself the profound bow and the 
"I am deeply grateful, sir," that tickle so our lach- 
rymal apparatuses. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Dropping into a chair.] Those stairs will be 
the death of me ! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[After studying the faces of Clara and Blake.] 
We'll be going, dear. 

Clara. 
Yes, mother. [They go towards the door.] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Runs after Clara, takes hold of both her shoul- 
ders and looks intently into her face.] My poor 
girl. You are not looking well. 

Clara. 
This unseasonable weather — 



60 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

1 shall see you by and by, dear. You must pick 
up a little courage — courage, dear, remember. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

We shall meet you all at Mrs. Hunter's tonight. 
Don't forget to stop in, Doctor. Good morning. 

Exeunt Mrs. and Miss Hunch. 

Fiedler. 

Those baskets, Mr. Hunter. It is past lunch 
time. We must deliver them. 

Hunter. 

[Suddenly awakened.] Yes — To be sure — Of 
course. 

Fiedler. 

How about you, Doctor? But I suppose you 
have some professional calls to make. 

Hunter. 

[To his wife; hesitating.] Would you like to 
come along, dear? 



Act I. The Quandary. 61 

Mrs. Hunter. 

No; I'd rather wait here. Mr. Blake will keep 
me company in the meanwhile — Won't you, Mr, 
Blake? 

Mr. Blake. 
I shall be delighted, I'm sure. 

Hunter. 
Very well, then. We shan't be very long. 
Exeunt Fiedler, Hunter and Dr. Merril. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Mr. Blake— [She settles herself in a chair and 
motions Blake to one at the opposite end of the 
room. He, however, sits down in one quite near 
to her, then adjusts it so as to face her. A long 
pause ensues.] 

Mr. Blake. 

Yes, Mrs. Hunter. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Beats a tattoo on the arm of the chair.] I — 
I— 



62 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Blake. 
[Clearing his throat.] Well? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Mastering her agitation.] Mr. Blake, do you 
really intend to propose to Miss Hunch? 

Mr. Blake. 

[Lighting a cigar.] May I? 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Certainly. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Puffing away.] Thank you. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
I have asked you a question. 

Mr. Blake. 
Pardon me — what was it? 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Do you intend to propose to Miss Hunch? 



Act I. The Quandary. 63 

Mr. Blake. 

[Adjusting the cigar in his mouth.] That is 
rather a personal question. Still, there is no rea- 
son for beating about the bush over it. I have pro- 
posed already. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
With what result? 

Mr. Blake. 

[Inspecting the band on his cigar.] Can't you 
imagine ? 

Mrs. Hunter. 
You were rejected, of course? 

Mr. Blake. 

What? Ha, ha ! How could you think of such 
a thing, Mrs. Hunter! Rejected — The idea! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Losing control over herself.] And you dared 
to — ! [Her agitation does not permit her to con- 
tinue.] 



64 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Blows away the smoke from before his face, 
crosses his legs, settles himself in a comfortable at- 
titude, and assumes an air of supreme composure. 
He knows his customer to perfection. His ob- 
vious intention is to let her exhaust herself by the 
intensity of her own emotions — a ruse analogous 
to that adopted by prize-fighters. He, therefore, 
waits before replying long enough to let her use 
up her stock of nervous ordnance, yet not so long 
as to enable her to lay in a new one.} And may 
I be permitted to inquire what has given you the 
impression that I should have asked your permis- 
sion regarding this matter? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You are an unspeakable — ! Well, I'd better 
not say it — just yet ! 

Mr. Blake. 

H'm ! The manner of your address reminds 
me forciblyof a woman I once knew [He rises, ap- 
proaches the fireplace, brushes into it the ashes of 
his cigar, replaces the latter between his lips with 
a smart tilt, and returns to his seat.] 



Act I. The Quandary. 65 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I don't give a scrap of whom I remind you, but 
you'll not have that girl ! 



Why not? 



Mr. Blake. 



Mrs. Hunter. 



Do you want me to give you reasons? You'd 
better take the hint, and leave her alone ! 

Mr. Blake. 

You are talking nonsense, Mrs. Hunter. It 
is true, I am not a dashing young hero. But the 
girl hasn't a penny to her soul. If I marry her 
she'll be a lady. I mean a real lady, and not a 
shadow of one, a penniless lady that she is now. 
She'll have everything that goes to make a real 
lady — dresses, automobiles, trips abroad, country 
residences, the opera, and all that. And what 
is more than that, she'll have a-plenty of admirers, 
where today she has none. You know as well as 
I do that the young men of today have mighty 
little admiration for a penniless lady — except per- 
haps such as our young Sam Higgins. 



66 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

A better man than you ever were — certainly than 
you can ever hope to be ! 

Mr. Blake. 

[With the utmost composure.} Perhaps, Mrs. 
Hunter, perhaps — for you and for Mr. Hunter. 
A good boy, a steady worker; takes a laudable in- 
terest in morality, doesn't drink, gamble, smoke, 
or run after women. A good boy, unquestionably. 
I have made up my mind to give him a nice Christ- 
mas present. But as a lady's admirer — how little 
satisfaction there can be to the lady from an ad- 
miration from that source ! The very mention of 
it would spoil her chances ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 
At least — he is — in good health. 

Mr. Blake. 
What do you mean to imply by that? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You know very well what I mean to imply by 
that! 



Act I. The Quandary. 67 

Mr. Blake. 

[Jumps to his feet, trembling with fury.~\ Look 
here you d — [He manages to control himself, but 
remains standing for a while, during which they 
gaze at each other intently.] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Sitting down.] You will abandon your plan, 
then? 

Mr. Blake. 

[After a pause; apparently subdued.] Mrs. 
Hunter, you are mistaken. I am in as good a 
state of health as any man of my age. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Mr. Fiedler will possibly believe you. 

Mr. Blake. 

Here is my word of honor, Mrs. Hunter, that 
I haven't been to see a doctor for — 

Mrs. Hunter. 
That's all right. You just leave that girl alone. 



68 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Curtly.] Look here, Mrs. Hunter, I have 
evinced a disposition to be friendly — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I appreciate it very much, I'm sure. 

Mr. Blake. 
But if you persist in interfering in my affairs — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Rises, enraged.] What? You are threaten- 
ing me? [Stamps her foot.] Is this a threat? 

Mr. Blake. 
[With massive calmness.] Yes, ma'am, it is. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Very well, then. [Picks up her coat and begins 
putting it on.] 

Mr. Blake. 

[Approaches her and taps her familiarly on the 



Act I. The Quandary. 69 

shoulder.] Come, come, Mrs. Hunter, better let 
us be friends. 



Mrs. Hunter. 

[Shrinking away from him.] Sit down there! 
[He obeys.] Look here, Mr. Blake, if you ever 
dare to threaten me again, I shall — 

Mr. Blake. 
What? Kill me perhaps? 

Mrs. Hunter. 
No; not that. 

Mr. Blake. 

No; I shouldn't think you would. They probe 
so at the trial for possible motives. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Of course; and then all sorts of exposures fol- 
low. 



70 The Quandary. Act I. 

Mr. Blake. 

[Bursts out roaring with laughter.] Ho, ho, h 
ho ! This is what I call talking sense ! Ho, ho, 
ho, ho! How familiar is all that! How very 
familiar! Ho, ho, ho, ho! 

CURTAIN. 



Act II. The Quandary. 71 

ACT 2. 

Scene I. 

A room in Mrs. Hunch's apartments. Two 
o'clock in the afternoon. 

A modestly and neatly furnished room. It has 
two doors; one at the rear communicates with the 
vestibule, the other at the left leads into the inner 
apartments. On the right is an open fireplace 
with a mantelpiece above it. On a small table in 
the rear is a telephone. 

Clara is trying to engage herself in something. 
She picks up a book, tries to read it, then puts it 
away. She adjusts the centerpiece on the table, 
then stops as if asking herself what she was about. 
She then approaches a vase of flowers on the man- 
telpiece, takes the flowers from it, and finds them 
wilted. She tries to put them to rights and finds 
it impossible, the petals falling to the floor from 
the slightest jar. She finally gathers the fallen 
petals from the floor, cautiously carries the flowers 
into the inner apartments and returns. There is 
a knock on the door. She runs to it and opens it. 

Enter Sam Higgins, carrying a bouquet of 
flowers. 



72 The Quandary. Act II. 

Clara. 
[With pleasant surprise.] Hello! 

Sam. 

[Embarrassed.] Good afternoon. [He removes 
the tissue paper from the flowers and hands them 
to her.] Do you like these? 

Clara. 

[Taking the flowers and smelling them.] The) 
are beautiful. It is ever so nice of you, Mr. Hig- 
gins. Come here. Take off your coat. [He 
takes off his coat.] Give it to me. [She puts away 
the flowers on the table.] 

Sam. 

No, no ! Just tell me where to put it — I'll put it 
away myself. 

Clara. 

Oh, that's all right ! [ Takes the coat from him.] 
Your hat too. [She carries the hat and coat into 
the vestibule. Sam follows her with his eyes, 
evidently amazed at seeing an ethereal being do 
such things.] 



Act II. The Quandary. 73 

Clara. 

[Reentering.] Mamma is taking her afternoon 
nap. Come here, let's sit down and talk. You 
sit here. How is your father? 

Sam. 

Thank you. He is much better. He was out 
this morning. You know, the trouble with him is 
that he drinks once in a while. Fve been trying 
my best to keep him away from it, but — [He 
heaves a deep sigh.] 

Clara. 
Poor old man ! 

Sam. 

You know, Miss Hunch, he isn't really a drunk- 
ard — 

Clara. 
No, of course not! 

Sam. 
You know, they all think he is. 



74 The Quandary. Act II. 

Clara. 



Who does? 



Sam. 



Mr. Fiedler, Mr. Coleman, and — and — your 
mother. But he isn't, really. It's only once in 
a while — a very great while — that he gets those 
spells. 

Clara. 
What spells ? 

Sam. 

Just spells of — of — I don't exactly know what 
to call them. He becomes downcast, disheartened 
— oh, so disheartened; and then he drinks. 

Clara. 

Poor man; he must have suffered much in his 
life. 

Sam. 

Yes; you know, of course, the trouble we've had 
— about my sister Lizzie, I mean. 



Act II. The Quandary. 75 

Clara. 
Yes; IVe heard something about it. 

Sam. 

I'm sure she's been dead a long time. Mr. 
Fiedler and Mr. Coleman and everybody thinks 
so. But father won't listen to them. Every time 
he sees Mr. Hunter, or Mrs. Hunter, he talks 
about her. 

Clara. 
Mrs. Hunter is a very nice woman, isn't she? 

Sam. 

Oh, yes, she's been very kind to us; and Mr. 
Hunter too. You know, he raised my wages 
today. [With a confidential air.] Do you know, 
Miss Hunch— 

Clara. 
[Smiling happily.] What? 

Sam. 
You know, I'm pretty sure that one of these 



76 The Quandary. Act II. 

days I'll be foreman in the cannery. I know it 
from a hint that Mrs. Hunter let drop yesterday. 
Don't you think it'd be fine? 

Clara. 
Yes. Very. 

Sam. 

But one has to know so much — you wouldn't 
think. You know, everything must be written 
down : so much of this and so much of that — down 
to half-ounces and quarter-ounces. But I am get- 
ting on to it. I'm studying hard. It's fractions 
that I am having a little trouble with. Did you 
ever study fractions, Miss Hunch? 

Clara. 

Yes. But don't let us talk about all that. And 
don't call me Miss Hunch. [Tears off a flower 
from the bouquet and adjusts it in his lapel.} Call 
me Clara, and I will call you Sam. 

Sam. 

[Utterly flabbergasted.} Miss — Oh — thank you. 
It sounds so strange to call you — 



Act II. The Quandary. 77 

Clara. 
Come, say it, let me hear— 

Sam. 

[Droops his head, slowly raises his eyes to her, 
smiles, then stammers out:} Clara. [He looks 
about him, as if surprised that a terrible cataclysm 
has not taken place; then gathers courage.] Clara. 
It is such a beautiful name. 

Clara. 
Is it ? You may always call me by that name. 

Sam. 

Not in the presence of — company? 

Clara. 

[Struck by his foresight.] Well — when we are 
alone call me Clara. 

Sam. 
Clara. [Rubs his lips and chews awkwardly.] 

Clara. 
Do you want some water? 



78 The Quandary. Act II. 

Sam. 

Yes, if you please. I'm not really thirsty; but 
my mouth is so dry. It's come on me just now. 

Clara goes to the inner apartments and returns 
with a glass of water. 

Clara. 
Here. 

Sam. 

[Takes a few swallows and sets the glass down 
on the table.] Thank you, Miss Hunch. 

Clara. 
Clara. 

Sam. 
[Smiling.] Clara. 

Clara. 

[Threatening him with her forefinger.] Look 
out, Sam — don't forget! 



Act II. The Quandary. 79 

Sam. 

Don't you know, J dreamed that you called me 
Sam and I called you Clara. 

Clara. 
You did? How wonderful! 

Sam. 

Oh, but I dreamed of that so many times. Don't 
you know, I dream an awful lot. Do you ever 
dream ? 

Clara. 

Yes, sometimes. Tell me, what do you dream 
about? 

Sam. 

About so many things. But mostly about what 
I am going to do when I get to be — well, when I 
get to be foreman, or superintendent, and all that. 
Sometimes I dream that I am out of work, look- 
ing for a job. 



80 The Quandary. Act II. 

Clara. 

[Adjusting the flowers in the vase on the mantel- 
piece.] And when you get to be foreman or su- 
perintendent — what do you do then? I mean in 
your dream? 

Sam. 

[Rises and walks to the centre of the room.] 
Oh, I think about it so often — I mean when I am 
awake. I am ashamed to say it. 

Clara. 
[Smiling at him.] Come, come, tell me. 

Sam. 

Well — how I might be a director in the Associa- 
tion for the Suppression of Vice, and what 1 
might do. And then, how I might — get married. 

Clara. 
Oh! You have a girl — is she pretty? 

Sam. 
No, not yet — but she is — very pretty — I think. 



Act II. The Quandary. 81 

Clara. 

Then you are in love? Will you tell me who 
the girl is? Is she working with you in the can- 
nery? 

Sam. 

No, no! She is not working at all. I — I can't 
tell you, Miss — Clara. 

Clara. 
[Pouting prettily.] I'm mad with you, Sam. 

Sam. 
Oh, please, don't be angry with me. 

Clara. 
Because you won't tell me. 

Sam. 
I'll tell you then. 

Clara. 
Come — quickly — do ! 



82 The Quandary. Act II. 

Sam. 

[Goes to the table J swallows some water from 
the glass and returns.] But you must promise me — 

Clara. 
What? 

Sam. 
Not to be angry with me. 

Clara. 
If you tell me, I won't. 

Sam. 

[Gasping for breath.] It's — it's — you. [Re- 
mains distressed and embarrassed.) 

Clara. 

[Grasps her temple f as if struck.] Oh ! [A short 
pause.] It is my fault — I shouldn't have done it — 
I shouldn't have asked you ! But I — I didn't mean 
anything! [Covers her face with her hands.] 



Act II. The Quandary. 83 

Sam. 

Please, Miss Hunch, forgive me. I didn't want 
to tell it to you. I have been thinking about you 
so much— Oh, so much! Once I dreamed that 
you died, and I was ill after that for a whole 
week. At night, when it is dark, and 1 lie awake, 
I think I can see you — 

Clara. 

[Pained.] Don't think about it— please don't. 
You know— it is quite impossible !— What am I 
saying? — Yes— quite— It can never be. Never. 
Forget me— please do! Never think of it again.' 
But you must promise me— always to be my friend 
—Always — Under all circumstances. Promise me, 
Sam. 

Sam. 
I promise— Always — 

Clara. 

[Suddenly throws her arms around his neck.] 
Oh, Sam— You are so good and kind I Oh, if you 
only knew! But you won't think ill of me— say 
you won't! 



84 The Quandary. Act II. 

. Sam. 

....[Utterly overwhelmed and broken in spirit, he 
at first stands plumb straight, then puts his arms 
around her.} No; never — nev — 

Mrs. Hunch appears in the door at the left. 
Sam's embrace, weak as it is j suddenly relaxes; 
his eyes grow big; his mouth remains open; he 
is struck dumb. 

Clara. 

[Who is standing with her back to the door and, 
therefore, does not notice her mother's entrance.} 
What is it, Sam, dear? [She turns her head in 
the direction of the door, and suddenly takes a few 
rapid strides backward.} Oh! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Coming forward and motioning Clara towards 
the door.} Go to your room! [Clara obeys, her 
mother accompanying her with a look of the pro- 
foundest contempt. Sam finds himself moving 
slowly towards the door in the rear.} You wait! 
[In a milder tone.} I want to speak to you, Sam. 
Wait. Come here; sit down [He obeys meekly.} 
Now, what have you got to say? 



Act II. The Quandary. 85 

Sam. 

[Completely demolished.] Nothing. I don't 
know what to say. It was all my fault. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[With utmost suavity.] That's very nice of 
you, Sam, to take the fault upon yourself. It 
shows that you have the blood of a gentleman in 
you. Now, if you are the gentleman I take you 
to be, you must promise me one thing. 

Sam. 
What is it? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Just this: Never to attempt anything of the 
sort again. Never to allow it even to cross your 
thoughts. And — most important of all — never 
to mention what has just happened to anyone. 
Sam, you are a good and honest boy; tell me, do 
you quite understand that if you communicated 
this affair to any of your friends, it would mean 
ruin to my daughter? Tell me, do you have suffi- 
cient regard for my daughter not to ruin her de- 
liberately ? 



86 The Quandary. Act II. 

Sam. 

[Almost trembling.] I shall never mention it 
to anybody — I promise you — never ! Not if it cost 
me my life ! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

You are a good boy, Sam. You are a gentle- 
man. 

Sam. 
Mrs. Hunch — 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Don't be afraid to talk to me, Sam. Speak 
freely — as if I were your mother. I know what it 
is to be young; I know what it is to cherish affec- 
tions. Say whatever you please — freely, and with- 
out reserve. What were you going to say? 

Sam. 

[With a choking sensation in his throat.] Mrs. 
Hunch — you're so kind to me ! Will you believe 
me, Mrs. Hunch, when I give you my word of 
honor, that — I had no bad intentions? 



Act II. The Quandary. 87 

Mrs. Hunch. 
I am certain of that, Sam. 

Sam. 

That — that I love your daughter truly and faith- 
fully; that I would gladly give my life for her — 

Mrs. Hunch. 
I believe you, Sam; I believe you. 

Sam. 

Mrs. Hunch — Would you object if— if Clara 
consented to be my wife? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Listen, Sam. What is your wages in the can- 
nery? 

Sam. 

» 

I was raised today. I'll be getting now twelve 
dollars a week. 



88 The Quandary. Act II. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Now tell me, Sam , would you expect your wife — 
my daughter Clara — you say you love her ever so 
much — would you expect her to make your coffee 
in the morning, to cook your dinners and prepare 
your lunch? — To wash your clothes and scrub the 
floors ? You know, twelve dollars a week wouldn't 
suffice to keep a servant. Who would do all the 
housework? You couldn't do it — you'd have to 
work all day. You know, Sam, a gentleman — 
mind you, I am speaking of a gentleman, a man 
of sense and honor — a gentleman who really loves 
a lady wouldn't expect her to leave a good home 
and become a servant girl. Tell me, Sam, am I 
wrong? 



Sam. 



No. 



Mrs. Hunch. 

I am right, then? You agree with me? 

Sam. 

Yes. 



Act II. The Quandary. 89 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Then you understand, of course, how very un- 
kind and unjust it would be for me to consent to 
my girl's becoming your wife? 

Sam. 
I do. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

And you also understand how unkind and un- 
just it would be of you to ask her to become your 
wife? 

Sam. 
I do. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Now, that's a good boy ! Sam, I always did take 
you for a good and true and honest boy. Luck 
will come your way some day, Sam. Luck always 
comes to those who do not permit their feelings 
to dominate the better parts of their nature. Now, 
then, Sam, this closes the affair. We shall remain 
the best of friends. Remember — nothing has hap- 



90 The Quandary. Act II. 

pened; nothing has been done, nothing has been 
said. 

Sam. 
[Crushed to nothingness.] Nothing. 

Mrs. Hunch. 
Good-bye, then, Sam. Here is my hand. 

Sam. 

Good-ibye. [They shake hands. Exit Mrs. 
Hunch.] 

Sam rises and goes to the door in the rear. As 
he opens it he walks into Dr. Merril. 

Dr. Merril. 

Sam — hello! Wait a second. [Gets hold of 
Sains shoulder and drags him hack into the room.] 
Is Mrs. Hunch in? 

Sam. 

Yes, sir ; she's there. [Points to the door on the 
left and returns towards that in the rear.] 



Act II. The Quandary. 91 

Dr. Merril. 

Hello, there! Wait a minute — don't hurry. 
Come here, sit down. 

Sam. 
I am a little in a hurry — I — I must go, Doctor. 

Dr. Merril. 

Oh, come! You'll complete the salvation of 
fallen womanhood a few minutes later. Come 
here, sit down. [Sam returns reluctantly.] What's 
the trouble with the fellow today? Sit down, I 
say, don't you hear me? 

Sam. 
Yes sir. [Sits down.] 

Dr. Merril. 

You wait here a minute, Sam. [Knocks on the 
left door; from within is heard "come in! y Dr. 
Merril passes into the inner apartment and returns 
shortly.] All right. I just told Mrs. Hunch we 
were here, to leave us alone for a few minutes. 
[Moves a chair near Sam.] Now, Sam, what's 
the trouble with you? 



92 The Quandary. Act II. 

Sam. 
Nothing in particular. Doctor. 

Dr. Merril. 
[Feeling his pulse.] Do you cough at all? 

Sam. 
No, not at all. 

Dr. Merril. 

How is your appetite? 

Sam. 

Very good at times; then again, at other times 
I hardly feel like eating for days and days. 

Dr. Merril. 

Now, what is that feeling about your head and 
forehead which you complained of this morning? 

Sam. 

Oh, well, it isn't anything very bad; it isn't al- 
ways there. A feeling of weight about the top of 



Act II. The Quandary. 93 

the head, and the forehead feels thick, numb, you 
know. 

Dr. Merril. 

You keep the windows of your bedroom open at 
night? 

Sam. 
Yes; always. 

Dr. Merril. 

[After a pause.} Now, tell me, Sam, is there 
anything — in your conduct — of which you might 
have reason to be — to be ashamed? I mean, is — 
is — what they call your conscience — quite as right 
as you would like it to be? 

Sam. 
[Hesitating.] My conscience ? 

Dr. Merril. 

Now, Sam, forget for a minute the Association 
for the Suppression of Vice. Forget Mr. Fiedler, 
morality, virtue, vice, the innate corruption of the 
heart, and all that. Bear in mind that doctors, like 



94 The Quandary. Act II. 

the daisies and dead men, never tell. If you want 
me to give you good advice, Sam, you will be per- 
fectly candid with me. There are, of course, cow- 
ards, who will lie even to their doctor. I have 
sufficient faith in you, Sam, not to count you among 
such. The mere telling it to me may help you, if 
nothing more. Now, have you courage enough 
to tell me the truth — the whole truth about — 

Their conversation becomes lower; then so low 
that it is hardly audible; then, for some minutes, 
it is altogether inaudible. Only by the manner of 
the two men can one tell that Sam is under the 
doctor's u third degree!' At the end of the con- 
versation Sam remains zvith his chin on his chest, 
and his hands folded on his thigh, in an atttitude 
of utter helplessness and submission. The doctor, 
with his hand on his chin, is absorbed in thought. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Rising suddenly.] Well, let us see what we 
can do. [He pulls out a prescription-pad and pen- 
cil from his pocket and writes. He then examines 
his writing, drops his hands to his sides ) and re- 
mains motionless, evidently in doubt how to pro- 
ceed. Suddenly he seems to have arrived at a de- 
cision; he replaces the pencil in his vestpocket, pulls 



Act II. The Quandary. 95 

off the written sheet from the pad and tears it de- 
liberately to pieces.} Foolishness! [Replaces the 
pieces of paper in one of his coat-pockets and the 
pad in the other.] There goes your medicine! 

Sam. 
Won't you prescribe me something, Doctor? 

Dr. Merril. 

Yes; you go down to the druggist and tell him 
to compound you a wife. 

Sam. 
Is that all, Doctor? 

Dr. Merril. 

Isn't that enough? Believe me, Sam, it's all 
humbug; my drugs will do no more for you 
than Mr. Fiedler's morality-sermons. What you 
need is to take a wife unto yourself. The fact is, 
my boy, you have an unfavorable family-history. 
It is an inherited inclination with you. You were 
born of a father who was married ; and your father, 
in his turn, was also born of a father who was 
married; and so on for some hundreds of millions 



96 The Quandary. Act II. 

of generations, down to the miscroscopic proto- 
zoon, who had the habit, whenever his job of mul- 
tiplying bv fission gave out, to contract a partner- 
ship with another protozoon. and so start the busi- 
ness afresh over again. I am afraid that neither 
I, nor Mr. Fiedler, nor even Mr. Coleman, A. B., 
Ph. D., will ever undo the mischief into which 
your grandfather the protozoon of a hundred mil- 
lion years ago had got you into. Get married, Sam. 

Sam. 
On twelve dollars a week? 

Dr. Merril. 

H'm ! There's something in that ! Confound 
your grandfather the protozoon. he should have 
provided you with a little more. A shiftless, a 
thoughtless, an immoral fellow he was. He mar- 
ried penniless, you see, and so we must have Asso- 
ciations for the Suppression of Vice ! 

Sam. 

This is all, then, that you have to tell me, Doc- 
tor? 



Act II. The Quandary. 97 

Dr. Merril. 

[Takes him by the lapel] Well, the fact is this, 
Sam. Had you had a ready supply of cash, or 
even a decent credit, I should have prescribed vig- 
orous exercise in the fresh air— games of various 
kinds, you know ;— rowing, swimming, baseball, 
and so on; perhaps travel, study, art. But then, 
if you had the cash, or, as I have said, even a 
decent credit, those substitutes mightn't be neces- 
sary; you could marry then and live repenting ever 
afterwards. But since you have neither the cash 
nor the credit, I am bound, as a matter of prece- 
dent and good form, to refer you to Mr. Fiedler; 
and should he fail, Mr. Coleman may tackle you 
with his statistics. Anyway, don't despair ; between 
the three of us you'll be kept pretty busy. 

Sam. 
Good afternoon, Doctor. 

Dr. Merril. 
Good afternoon, Sam. 

Exit Sam. Dr. Merril approaches the door at 
the left, knocks on it and opens it a little. 



98 The Quandary. Act II. 

Dr. Merril. 

All right, Mrs. Hunch. [Enter Mrs. Hunch.] 
I'm all ready. Where is the patient? What's the 
trouble with her? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Oh, she's all right. I wanted to speak to you 
about another matter, Doctor. Mr. Blake is a 
patient of yours, isn't he? 

Dr. Merril. 
Yes. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

The fact is — Won't you sit down? [They both 
sit down.] The fact is — Well, I just wanted to 
ask you: is it true, as Mrs. Hunter hinted this 
morning, that Mr. Blake is in a bad state of 
health? — No, that wasn't quite what I meant to 
ask you. Let me see — Well — I mean — would you 
tell me whether he doesn't suffer from some — 
communicable malady? 



Act II. The Quandary. 99 

Dr. Merril. 

Mrs. Hunch, you astonish me. You positively 
astonish me ! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Why? You are my family physician, can't I 
ask you such a simple question? 

Dr. Merril. 

Mrs. Hunch, I am absolutely shocked! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

But why ? In Heaven's name, what's the trouble 
with you? 

Dr. Merril. 

None whatever. I can only tell you that I am 
dumbfounded— absolutely shocked and dumb- 
founded by such an altogether unusual question! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Unusual question ? What do you mean ? Why 
is it an unusual question? 



100 The Quandary. Act II. 

Dr. Merril. 

Why? — There you've got me: I don't know 
why, Mrs. Hunch. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Rising.] I see — professional ethics! 

Dr. Merril. 

[Looking at his watch.] Yep! I suppose that's 
what it is. A dog's life, this, Mrs. Hunch. Three 
o'clock, and I haven't had my lunch yet. And I 
still must make at least three calls before going 
home. If my wife sues for a divorce one of these 
days, she shall have me as her star witness. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Contemplates him with a look of profoundest 
disdain.] M'hm! I shall not detain you, Doctor. 
Professional ethics ! Dr. Merril, as between an 
old woman and a doctor, I hope you'll not con- 
sider it a discourtesy if I tell you — damn your pro- 
fessional ethics! [Goes through the door at the 
left } shutting it behind her with a bang.] 



Act II. The Quandary. 101 

Dr. Merril. 

[Beaten and humiliated, he looks in the direc- 
tion of the door for some seconds.} That's a nice 
little mess ! [He rises, approaches the door at the 
left, hesitates for a minute, then gives up the at- 
tempt, and moves slozviy out of the room by the % 
rear door.] 

A little later the bell rings. Mrs. Hunch crosses 
the room, entering from the door at the left and 
leaving by that in the rear. She returns presently 
with Mrs. Hunter. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I met Sam Higgins just now. He was dressed 
like a dandy, with a flower in his buttonhole. [Her 
glance takes in the flowers on the mantelpiece.] But 
downcast — phew-ew ! He told me he had just 
been here. What have you done to him Mrs. 
Hunch ? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Bless the poor fellow! He seemed in excellent 
spirits when I left him. Perhaps Dr. Merril did 
something to him. 



102 The Quandary. Act II. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

The boy looks as if he were in love. Was Dr. 
Merril here — to see Clara? Is she ill? She did 
complain of a headache this morning. How is 
she? I should like to see her. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Just a moment, Mrs. Hunter; I shall tell her 
that you are here. [Exit.] 

Airs. Hunter approaches the mantelpiece and ex- 
amines the flowers. Enter Mrs. Hunch. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

She has just fallen asleep, poor thing. I hope 
that will relieve her, so she is in shape for tonight. 
Shall I wake her? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, no, no! Do you know, Mrs. Hunch, I 
think there is something between your Clara and 
that boy Sam. 

Mrs. Hunch. 
What do you mean? 



Act II. The Quandary. 103 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Smiling.] I believe the young people are in 
love. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Oh, what nonsense! How could you think of 
such a thing! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Why not? They are both young, handsome 
and marriageable. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

You are a happy person, Mrs. Hunter. You 
are always making fun. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

So are you, Mrs. Hunch. It was very funny the 
way you spoke about Mr. Blake this morning. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Was it? 



104 The Quandary. Act II. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Wasn't it? Ha, ha! — That old profligate and 
waster ! 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Mrs. Hunter, you seem to have an old grudge 
against Mr. Blake. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

A grudge ! Why should I have ? But when 
his name — old cripple that he is ! — is mentioned in 
connection with a young girl, I cannot help shud- 
dering. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Well — affection is a very strange thing some- 
times. What will you do? The girl is mad over 
him. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You mean — Clara ? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Yes, of course. 



Act II. The Quandary. 105 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Are you in earnest? Would you really consent 
to such a marriage? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Well, you see, in times gone by a girl's parents 
used to choose a husband for her. Thank the 
Lord — those times are past. I pride myself on 
being sufficiently advanced not to trifle with my 
daughter's affections, and not to undertake to 
choose a husband for her. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Mrs. Hunch, how can you think of such a thing I 
Affection for an old, lame and diseased dog like 
that? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

My dear, you are biased — and, I fear, a little 
old-fashioned. Well — I believe in letting nature 
take its own course. Everything is for the best 
in the long run. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Are you quite sure, Mrs. Hunch, you are not in 



106 The Quandary. Act II. 

error? Do you know what I think? I think 
the girl is merely pretending attachment to Mr. 
Blake in order to lead you off the track. You 
know, girls will do that sort of thing sometimes. 
I think she is in love with that boy Sam. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Perfectly preposterous ! I hope I know my child 
better than that! 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Do you think it so utterly impossible? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Of course ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Why? I really think that Sam is as good a boy 
as one can find. He would make an excellent hus- 
band for Clara ! This is quite certain, the boy is 
crazy over her. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Well — you see — he is an employee of yours, and 
you are naturally a little partial towards him. It 



Act II. The Quandary. 107 

is ever so nice of you, Mrs. Hunter, to take your 
employees' affairs to heart as you do. But you 
will grant that my daughter's interests are at least 
as dear to me as your employees' interests are to 
you. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I hope you are not offended. You know, Mrs. 
Hunch, we have been friends ever since I came to 
this city. 

Mrs. Hunch. 
Oh, no; no offense! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I thank you. Well, then, why do you think 
that Sam wouldn't be the proper husband for 
Clara? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Mrs. Hunter, you are very kind, I'm sure, to 
take so much interest in a fatherless girl. I under- 
stand that Mr. Hunter has raised Sam's wages to 
the fabulous sum of twelve dollars a week. Of 
course, we are poor, and the girl isn't quite used 
to luxuries. But don't you think that twelve dol- 



108 The Quandary. Act II. 

lars a week would rather make it a little hard 
for her? Besides, the relationship which she 
would contract, as you may know, wouldn't be 
quite of the best kind. You know of course that 
Sam's sister is a prostitute, and that his father 
is a drunkard and a brute? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, well, Mrs. Hunch, as an advanced woman 
you wouldn't put Sam's relatives as against his 
personal merits ! But regarding his earnings — 
what if I promised you that the boy will be made 
superintendent of the establishment? 

Mrs. Hunch. 

That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hunter. He will 
then probably be getting the unheard of salary of 
twenty-five dollars a week. Really, Mrs. Hunter, 
you speak so like a child — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But he may be advanced still further — You 
know, Mr. Hunter thinks the world of the boy — 
there's no telling, he — may become a member of 
the firm. — Of course, it must all take time — a 
little time — 



Act II. The Quandary. 109 

Mrs. Hunch. 

My dear, you are very nervous. — Look how 
pale you are! Shall I give you a little ammonia? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

No, thanks. 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Takes Mrs. Hunter's face between her hands.} 
My dear, you must see Dr. Merril — you must 
promise me to see him. [Whispers in her ear, then 
laughs and taps her on the shoulder.] Oh, you! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Very fidgety.} Well — I'll speak to Clara some 
time tonight. At any rate, Mrs. Hunch, she 
musn't hurry about that affair — Let her wait.— 
You know, she may repent it bitterly afterwards — 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Oh, no! She is not in the least hurry about 
it! Very well — you may speak to her and see 
what you could do. 



110 The Quandary. Act II. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I shall be going, then. I shall see you tonight. 
[Exit.] 

Mrs. Hunch. 

[Goes to the telephone and calls up a number.] 
Hello! Mr. Blake? I must see you particularly, 
at once. No; not here. I shall be walking down 
the street, meet me in your machine. You won't 
miss me. Yes, I shall start at once. Good-bye. 
[Hangs up the receiver, thinks for a minute, then 
rings and call for another number.] Hello! Is 
Mr. Fiedler in? Tell him please Mrs. Hunch is 
at the 'phone. Mr. Fiedler? Mrs. Hunch. Mr. 
Fiedler, will you be in between seven and eight? 
Yes. very important. Between seven and eight, 
then. Yes, wait, by all means. Don't disappoint 
me now. Very well. Good-bye. [She hangs up 
the receiver, then walks to the front of the room.] 
Ugh ! As some philosopher has said — I'll take 
care of my enemies, but the good Lord deliver 
me from my friends! 

CURTAIN. 

SCENE 2. 
An average workingman } s sittingroom-kitchen, 



Act II. The Quandary. 1 1 1 

rather untidy , in one of the old-time tenements of 
the downtown district. Five o'clock in the after- 
noon. 

Mr. Jim Higgins, a broken-down workingman 
of fifty-odd, is asleep in "the" rocker. His at- 
titude, however, is expressive of the fact that he 
is more than merely asleep. His body sags down, 
and his head inclines unduly to one side — the 
muscular relaxation is great. 

His son, Sam Higgins, is seated opposite him. 
He is making repeated efforts to concentrate his 
attention on the contents of a book in his hands, 
but fails ; his glance wandering every few seconds 
from the book into vacancy. He finally abandons 
the effort, puts away the book on a shelf, produces 
a poker and stoops to poke the fire in the stove; 
then inspects the grate, finds the fire unsatisfactory, 
and rises disgusted. His attention is drawn to 
the flower in his buttonhole ; he holds forth his 
lapel, smells the flower, and inspects himself in the 
mirror. Evidently his appearance, too, is not to 
his satisfaction. He turns around, gazes at his 
father for a few seconds, then suddenly grasps his 
hat, throws his overcoat over his arm and leaves 
the room. 

A little later there is a knock at the door, which 
presently opens. Mrs. Hunter looks in cautiously, 



1 12 The Quandary. Act II. 

then enters. She is evidently shocked by the ap- 
pearance of the place and hesitates, standing near 
the door. She approaches the old man and shakes 
him gently. His head inclines more to the side 
from the jar } and he emits inarticulate sounds. 
She bends over liim, and is repelled by the odor of 
his breath. She stands over him for some time, 
then begins to shake him; gently at first, then vig- 
orously, then desperately. He only mutters indis- 
tinct sounds. She gives up the attempt to arouse 
him, straightens herself and covers her face with 
her hands. A singular transformation takes place 
in her appearance as she does so; the hardy-look- 
ing little woman falls in, becomes soft and weak. 
After a while she produces a handkerchief from 
her handbag, dips it in water under the spigot in 
the sink f wipes her face and fans herself with the 
handkerchief, standing against the mirror. She 
then adjusts the man's body in the chair in a more 
comfortable position, and begins to busy herself 
about the room. She shakes up the fire in the 
stove and adds coal; produces a broom from some- 
where and sweeps the room; then wipes the table 
and mantelpiece with a wet rag. She goes about 
her work with a feverish haste } stopping once in 
a while to listen at the door. The work done, she 
sits down for a minute , in doubt what to do next. 



Act II. The Quandary. 113 

She then rises with a start } fills a glass with water 
from the spigot, approaches the man and sprinkles 
some water into his face with her hand. The 
man shudders, opens his eyes, and looks bewil- 
dered. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Handing him the glass.] Here, Mr. Higgins, 
take a few draughts ; that will refresh you. 

Higgins. 

[Takes the glass with a trembling hand, drinks, 
returns it and rubs his eyes.] Oh-h ! Mrs. Hunter ! 
B-beg your pardon, ma'am ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Pulling him up by his coat-shoulder.] Come! 
Get up! Quickly, Mr. Higgins! 

Mr. Higgins rises heavily, wabbles a second, and 
remains erect. 

Higgins. 
I beg your-r pardon, Mrs. Hunter. 



114 The Quandary. Act II. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

That's all right. Come here — hurry! Mr. Hun- 
ter and Mr. Fiedler are coming here directly. 
[She leads him to the sink, turns on the water, and 
gets hold of the back of his neck.} Here, put your 
head under the spigot. [He does so.] Rub your 
face with your hands. That's right. [She hands 
him a towel; he wipes himself.] Now go comb 
your hair. [He goes to the mirror and combs 
his hair.] 

Higgins. 

Mrs. Hunter, I beg your pardon, ma'am ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You have done so already. Now, come here, 
old man, I want to talk to you. Sit down. I 
think I have some good news for you. It is pos- 
sible that we may locate your girl. [Starts to her 
feet suddenly.] I hear them coming — [She runs 
out of the room. Behind the door a lively dis- 
cussion is heard to ensue, which lasts for a minute 
or two.] 

Enter Mrs. Hunter, Fiedler, Mr. Hunter and 



Act II. The Quandary. 115 

Dr. Merril. Hunter and Fiedler are each carry- 
ing a large basket. 

Fiedler. 

[On entering.} I cannot understand it! It is 
utterly beyond my comprehension ! A deliberate, 
a — [Puts the basket down on the floor.} 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, please, Mr. Fiedler — for my sake ! 

Fiedler. 

The most singular caprice ! Why, it's — 

Dr. Merril. 

Mr. Fiedler, stop these pretensions, remember — 

Fiedler. 

[With all the emphasis of which his respecta- 
bility is capable.} My dear sir, I maintain that 
they are not pretensions ! I insist that it amounts 
to wanton deception! To deliberate prevarica- 
tion ! 



116 The Quandary. Act II. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Continuing.] — Remember that he who has not 
sinned could never hope to be a saint. Start with 
prevaricating, it is as good as anything else. See 
Hunter, he doesn't object to prevarication: for 
it is written : "Therefore shall a man leave his 
father and his mother and shall cleave unto his 
wife." 

Fiedler waves the whole matter away with a 
gesture of his arm, indicative of a willingness to 
acquiesce to any lie, so he would he spared the 
torrent of Dr. Merril' s blasphemy. 

Hunter. 

[Putting down the basket on the table.] Some 
nice things to eat, Mr. Higgins. 

HlGGINS. 

[Moodily.] Thanks, Mr. Hunter. Thanks. I 
w-wish you hadn't taken the trouble. 

Hunter. 

No trouble at all, Mr. Higgins; you are wel- 
come. 



Act II. The Quandary. 1 1 7 

Dr. Merril. 
You've been drinking again, Mr. Higgins — 

Higgins. 
I have, Doctor; it's no use lyin'; I have. 

Fiedler. 

Why — Mr. Higgins — don't you know that 
drinking is a ruinous habit to indulge in? — Ruin- 
ous to the mind as well as to the body? 

Higgins. 
Yes, sir; I know it all right. 

Fiedler. 
You do! Then why do you indulge in it? 

Higgins. 

Well, y'see, it's jes' this : I ain't got nothin' as 
could be made much worser than what it is. So 
y'see, it can't do me no harm. 



1 1 8 The Quandary. Act II. 

Fiedler. 
Have you no soul? 

Higgins. ,, 
Yes, sir; I believe I have. 

Fiedler. 
And you are bent on ruining it? 

Higgins. 

Well — I don't see as that could harm me any. 
It's a troublesome soul I've got, Mr. Fiedler. It's 
a soul that ain't got no hopes ; and such a one, the 
sooner it's ruined the better for all concerned. 

Fiedler. 

Do you consider your conduct as a good ex- 
ample for your boy Sam ? 

Higgins. 

Yes, sir. Let him see for hisself what a indi- 
vidual is like as ain't got nothin' from life to ex- 
pec'. 



Act II. The Quandary. 119 

Hunter. 

[To himself.] Nothing from life to expect! 

HlGGINS. 

No, sir; nothin' ! If you know of anything tell 
me, I'll be glad to know it ! 

Hunter. 
Your boy Sam — 

HlGGINS. 

Yes, sir, Mr. Hunter, I know — you've raised his 
wages; and we are ever so grateful to you. And 
may be one day he'll get to be as high as foreman, 
and be earnin' fifteen dollars a week. And may 
be he'll marry, and get a real good, honest woman, 
who won't think of nothin' but be scrubbin' floors, 
and do the washin' and cookin' and tendin' the 
children. And then she'll be crippled up like my 
wife was, at the age of thirty; and she'll be dead, 
like her, at forty; and Sam will get as much out 
of life as I've got. 

Fiedler. 
That's the trouble with you, Higgins, you are a 



120 The Quandary. Act II. 

complete materialist, what we call. You have 
n the darkest and dryest colors. In fact, you are 
no ideals. That's the reason you see everything 
a perfect pessimist. Can't you get yourself to 
change your viewpoint? Can't you imagine that 
Sam will grow up to be a good and a strong man, 
who will push his way into the world, who will — 

HlGGINS. 

Yes, sir, I cert'ny can — when I've had a couple 
of good stiff drinks; everythin' looks bright and 
shiny, then. 

Fiedler waves his hand to Hunter, as who should 
say: "Itfs no use arguing with that man; he is 
irredeemable." 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But your girl Lizzie, Mr. Higgins ! Think how 
happy you would be if your girl came back to 
you ! 

Higgins. 

Why'd I be happy, Mrs. Hunter? D'you think 
Mr. Hunter'd take her back in the cannery? 



Act II. The Quandary. 121 

Hunter. 

Mr. Higgins, I assure you that the day she came 
back she would have the best woman's position in 
the establishment. 

Higgins. 
Would she though ? 

Hunter. 

[With almost hysterical eagerness.] You have 
my word for it, Mr. Higgins !— Oh, I know what 
you mean — of course. But don't let that worry 
you. I wouldn't hesitate to discharge on the in- 
stant any employee who would dare so much as 
hint at her previous condition. I would — 

Dr. Merril. 

What are you talking about, Hunter ? Are you 
delirious ? 

Hunter. 

[As if suddenly awakened } stares blankly for a 
moment; then rises and approaches Dr. Merril.] 



122 The Quandary. Act II. 

Dr. Merril. 
[4 side.] What's the trouble with you? 

Hunter. 

Merril — I'm afraid I'm ill. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Wouldn't it make you happy to see your daugh- 
ter [To her husband.] Come here, dear. 
[Hunter takes his place again.] Wouldn't it make 
you happy, Mr. Higgins, to see your daughter 
once more an honest woman, making her living by 
honest toil ? 

Higgins. 

N-no, Mrs. Hunter, it's no use lyin', I m-must 
say it won't. 

Hunter. 

[Surprised.] It wouldn't! 

Fiedler. 

[Rises in intense indignation. To Hunter and 
Dr. Merril.] It wouldn't. Do you hear that? 
It wouldn't! Talk to those people about the 



Act II. The Quandary. 123 

higher sentiments ! They are steeped to the points 
of their hair in an atmosphere of sordid mate- 
rialism ! \With sincere sarcasm^ I suppose, Dr. 
Merril, you rejoice exceedingly over this picture! 
You always insist on the body, body, and body! 
Well, here's your body — without a trace of the 
spiritual, the ideal! Rejoice over your body, Doc- 
tor! Just hear him, he says it wouldn't! It 
wouldn't ! 

HlGGINS. 

No, Mr. Fiedler, I say it again, it wouldn't ! 
Because I seen her at that honest toil ten year ago, 
and I seen her at it twenty year ago, ever since 
she was that big, and I can tell you it didn't make 
me happy when I seen her at it. 

Hunter. 

{Deeply wounded.] Mr. Higgins, I know the 
work in the cannery isn't light. But if you will 
tell me — I know you are an honest man — if you 
will tell me that the conditions in my establishment 
have not been absolutely better than in any other 
cannery in the State, I declare right here, in the 
presence of my wife and friends, that I am willing 
to make full amends ! 



124 The Quandary. Act II. 

Higgins. 

No, Mr. Hunter, it ain't that. You done your 
best. Everybody knows it; leastwise I know it. 

Hunter. 

[Continuing.] Mr. Fiedler, Dr. Merril, she — 
[Pointing to his wife.] she knows it: I am not 
realizing 3 per cent, on my investment, while other 
canners are making as much as 30 and 40 per 
cent ; and my methods are as modern as any. I am 
paying to each of my employees on the average one 
dollar a week more than is paid in any other can- 
nery in the State. If I withheld this one dollar, 
it would mean an additional $500 a week for me — 
$26,000 a year! I am moderate in my habits: I 
do not ride automobiles, I have no country resi- 
dence, and my wife does not wear any jewels. The 
only luxury which I allow myself is my regular 
contribution to the Society for the Suppression of 
Vice, and an occasional few dollars to the chari- 
ties. These items of my expenditures I have not 
the heart to cut out, at a time that I see the ter- 
rors of drunkenness and immorality, so to say, in 
my own home — my own canning establishment. 
The girls run off and become prostitutes, the men 
and boys take to drinking. 



Act II. The Quandary. 125 

Fiedler. 

Mr. Hunter, your conscience may rest at ease. 
You are doing what you can, and more than you 
can. While other men are spending their incomes 
on senseless luxuries, you have been devoting yours 
to the raising of the standard of morality in our 
community by an effort to suppress the temptations 
which everywhere lure the working girls and the 
working men from their homes — the houses of ill- 
fame, the dancing halls, the saloons and so forth. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Tell me, Mr. Higgins, is it your opinion that 
your girl ran off because she was allured by those 
temptations? By dancing halls, the cafes, the 
houses of ill- fame, and so on? 

Fiedler. 
Of course! What then? 

Higgins. 

No, Mr. Fiedler, My girl ain't left her home 
on acount of them dancin' halls, nor on account of 
no houses of ill-fame. If the truth must be said 
she ain't left no home neither. People as ain't 



126 The Quandary. Act II. 

lived in here might call it a home; but you take 
it from me, it ain't ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You will acknowledge, Mr. Higgins, that the 
poorest home is incomparably better — more de- 
cent — than — than a house of ill-fame. 

Higgins. 

How you know it's better if you ain't tried it? 
Decen' ! Well. I don't see nothin' decen' about 
livin' in a stuffy hole ! And I don't see nothin' 
decen' about workin' your body away for live dol- 
lars a week neither. It's true, Mr. Hunter, you 
been payin' my girl a dollar a week more than she 
could'a'got anywhere, but that ain't done her no 
good : she ain't had nothin' decen' to wear, nothin'. 
decen' to see. nothin' decen' to live in, nothin' de- 
cen' to live for! Nothin' but hard work all day, 
a stuffy hole to sleep in at night, and a sermon on 
Sunday! And the worst of it — she ain't had no 
hope of ever bein' able to crawl out of this here, 
what you call, decen' existence. No, Mr. Fiedler, 
I don't care howsoever indecen' a life she might 
be leadin' now, but it can't — can't be any more in- 



Act II. The Quandary. 127 

decen' than the life she'd led when she was what 
you might call good! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But, Mr. Higgins. have you ever thought of the 
terrible diseases from which women who lead a 
dishonorable life suffer, and of the terrible deaths 
they die? 

Higgins. 

[Rises, much excited.] Yes, Mrs. Hunter, 1 
know it ! I ain't as foolish as all that ! And there's 
something more that I know. My wife 'd'been 
what you call a good and honest woman. And I 
can tell you, there ain't no more terrible diseases 
than what she suffered — leastwise I can't imagine 
of none! She'd had rheumatism, and she'd had 
consumption, and she'd had heart disease, and she 
suffered tortures from woman's troubles, that she 
got from gettin' up too soon and goin' about her 
work, after she give birth to my boy Sam. And 
the death she died— nobody couldnVdied a more 
terrible death — in a pool of blood, like a slaugh- 
tered animal! D'you know what my oldest girl 
died from? The doctor said her mother's milk 
must'a'been poisoned from care and worry. And 



128 The Quandary. Act II. 

another boy died at the age of three — bad feedin', 
the doctor said. Them's what you might call hon- 
orable diseases and honorable deaths! I'd have 
to be pretty well soused, Mrs. Hunter, to think so ! 
No, Mr. Hunter, better leave my girl alone, wher- 
ever she might be. I don't care how indencen' and 
dishonorable a life she might be leadin', she can't 
— she can't! — be any worser off than was her 
mother — and sister — and baby brother ! — Please — 
don't ! — Leave her alone ! — Poor girl of mine ! — 
[His voice quavers; he covers his face with his 
hands and slowly walks out into the ether room, on 
the left.] 

Mr. Fiedler, who has risen, remains standing 
with his face to the wall. He does something to his 
face with his handkerchief f pretending to have sud- 
denly contracted a severe ccriza. Dr. Merril, at 
the other end of the room, stands with his arms 
folded, his gaze assiduously contemplating some 
point on the floor. Hunter, in the centre of the 
room, looks from Dr. Merril to Fiedler, as if he 
expected something from them. Mrs. Hunter, 
with her hands on her temples, sits motionless in 
the rocker. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[In a husky voice, and with very slow accent, to 



Act II. The Quandary. 129 

her husband.] Do you blame her? [She rises, 
approaches her husband and hides her face on his 
breast. ] 

Hunter. 

[JVith deep emotion.} No, no, my poor little 
bird! — Far be it from me! — But — but — There is 
something wrong in all that! [In a louder voice.} 
Something I hadn't thought of before ! Some- 
thing — let me see — I must think! — What it is? 
— What can it be — 

Fiedler. 

[With profound sincerity.] Something; radi- 
cally wrong ! It appears to me — It seems to me — 
it looks as if — [He interrupts himself by waving 
his hand in disgust.] 

Dr. Merril. 

I'll tell you what, gentlemen: We have been 
simply making asses of ourselves ! [He kicks the 
basket on the floor with his foot with all hfc 
might.] 

CURTAIN. 



130 The Quandary. Act III 



ACT 3. 

A room in Mr. Hunter's residence. Eight 
o' clock in the evening. 

A neatly , comfortably and not over -luxuriously 
furnished room. A wide portal in the rear hung with 
a heavy curtain, leads into the parlor adjoining, 
whence sounds of music are faintly audible during 
the act. Whenever the two halves of the curtain 
are separated by someone's entrance or exit, a 
glimpse is caught of a brightly lighted room, and 
the figures of men and women passing in a dance ; 
the music is then heard louder, mingled with sounds 
of conversation and laughter. On the left is a door 
leading to the other apartments, and on the right 
one which communicates with the entrance of the 
house. 

Mr. Hunter is pacing the room in silence. He 
looks careworn. Once in a while he stops to listen 
to the sounds coming from the adjoining room. 
He fumbles listlessly with objects; finds himself 
staring into space; tries to rouse himself ; loses pa- 
tience with himself ; and finally remains motionless, 
supporting himself against a chair in the centre of 
the room. 



Act III The Quandary. 131 

Enter Mrs. Hunter. She is noticeably pale. 
Her movements are strangely abrupt, spasmodic; 
evidently brought about by an effort to conquer an 
overpowering hesitancy, an indecision. On seeing 
her husband she stops, looks toward him search- 
ingly, then goes to him and puts her hand upon his 
shoulder. He starts, turns towards her, and his 
face is forced into a smile. 

Hunter. 
Oh, it is you ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

What is it, dear? 

Hunter. 
Nothing ; nothing in particular. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I have seen you often like that. But you were 
in a cheerful mood this morning. Was it — 

Hunter. 

My dear, how pale you are! My poor little 
bird ! Are you not feeling well ? 



132 The Quandary. Act III 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Turns away her face.] No, no! 

Hunter. 

[ Tries to turn her face towards him with his 
hands, but she resists.] Mabel — What is it? You 
are not angry? — Why don't you speak? [She 
goes towards the curtain in the rear; he follows her 
and takes her by the hand.] Come here, dear, I 
want to speak to you. 

Enter Dr. Merril. 

Dr. Merril. 

[Quickly retreating.] Pardon me. 

Hunter. 

Dr. Merril — wait. — Stay here. — I want you. 
Listen, Merril, I have decided — I have made up 
my mind to — 

Dr. Merril. 
You are mad! [Goes towards the rear.] 



Act III The Quandary. 133 

Hunter. 

[Getting hold of him.] No, you can't go — you 
must stay. I am quite resolved. — I cannot bear 
the strain of it any longer ! — 

Enter Coleman. 

Mr. Coleman. 

[After the usual "good evening/'] I did a 
couple of hours' work this afternoon on our study 
of the relation of drunkenness and prostitution 
to the previous condition of the subjects. The 
deeper I get into the facts the more amazing and 
incongruous do they seem. 

Dr. Merril. 
What do you mean? 

Mr. Coleman. 

I find, for instance, *hat the previous occupation 
of the man or the woman determines in a very large 
percentage of cases their subsequent moral status. 

Dr. Merril. 

Well — there doesn't seem to be anything very 
amazing in that. 



134 The Quandary. Act III 

Mr. Coleman. 

No; not if you considered certain groups of oc- 
cupations by themselves. For instance, employ- 
ment in drug manufacturies, chemical works, can- 
ning establishments, and so forth. In these, it 
might be reasoned, that the action of certain chemi- 
cals used in the processes of manufacture, may have 
a certain subtle influence upon the physique of the 
employees, that would result in the throwing over 
of their moral balance. 

Dr. Merril. 
Ah, I see, to be sure. 

Mr. Coleman. 

But the worst of it is this, that a comparison of 
that class of occupations with a class of quite a 
different character, shows that their influence on 
the morality of those who engage in them is prac- 
tically the same. For instance, work in depart- 
ment stores, hotels, laundries and so forth. 

Dr. Merril. 

A deeper study of the several occupations may 
perhaps reveal a something akin to them all — 



Act III The Quandary. 135 

some subtle force still undiscovered — an electric 
or electro-magnetic influence of the malicious ani- 
mal variety. 

Mr. Coleman. 

The thing is confusing in the extreme. Another 
obvious incongruity is this, that the lower the 
wages and the worse the living conditions, the 
greater the percentage of drunkenness and prosti- 
kition. 

Dr. Merril. 

Impossible ! 

Mr. Coleman. 

It is a fact. My statistics prove it clearly, much 
as it is impossible to understand. It would seem 
obvious enough, that the less money a man has to 
spend on drink, the less would he be apt to drink ; 
and yet, quite the contrary is the result. The best 
mechanics drink very little. The same is true as 
regards those women. It would seem that the 
greater the temptations to which a woman is ex- 
posed, the more would she be apt to succumb. The 
facts indicate quite the opposite. The hardest- 
worked and worst-paid women become prostitutes, 



136 The Quandary. Act III 

while among those engaged in the more remunera- 
tive occupations, the percentage of prostitution is 
comparatively small. Isn't it amazing? What 
do you think? 

Dr. Merril. 

What do I think? I should say that thinking 
had very little to do with the question. 

Mr. Coleman. 
I am absolutely confounded ! 

Dr. Merril. 

Of that, in any event, I am not at all surprised. 
Those problems in transcendental metaphysics are 
at times very confusing. 

Mr. Coleman. 

However, I think I have struck upon a clue that 
may lead to the final establishment of the cause 
of prostitution. 

Dr. Merril. 

You have? What is it? 



Act III The Quandary. 137 

Mr. Coleman. 

White slavery. A girl is cunningly abducted 
from her home into a house of ill fame, and kept 
there by force. Here is a cause of prostitution 
that lends itself to everybody's understanding. 
If we can succeed in crystallizing our statistics 
around this point — 

Dr. Merril. 
You say crystallizing our statistics? 

Mr. Coleman. 

Yes. I say, if we could succeed in crystallizing 
our statistics around this point, then the cause of 
prostitution becomes clearly established. Of course, 
it remains to be shown that cases which are ap- 
parently widely different in their merits, are. in 
reality of the same nature, only of varying de- 
grees. But this latter feature is for the expert 
statistician a comparatively trivial task to accom- 
plish. 

Dr. Merril. 
I have no doubt. 



138 i he Quandary. Act III 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Who has herself been watching keenly the con- 
versation, and compelling her husband to do the 
same.] Mr. Coleman, under what caption would 
you place a case of the following nature : A certain 
man is suffering from a complication of contagious 
diseases. He is old and crippled. But he is rich. 
That man, with the assistance of an avaricious old 
woman, compels a young and innocent girl to be- 
come the subject for the gratification of his lust. 

Mr. Coleman. 
A plain case of white slavery ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 
And what is the law in such cases? 

Mr. Coleman. 

The law is very severe in such cases : heavy fines, 
and long terms of imprisonment. 

Mrs. Hunter. 
But the old woman is the girl's mother! 



Act III The Quandary. 139 

Mr. Coleman. 

That doesn't make the case any milder. If any- 
thing it rather aggravates the extent of the crime. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

But the girl is poor and weak. She was brought 
up in a manner that has incapacitated her for work. 
She has no father. She is a burden on her mother. 
Doesn't the law in such cases allow some extenu- 
ation for the mother who sells her daughter into 
prostitution ? 

Mr. Coleman. 

Not the least. How can you think of such a 
thing, Mrs. Hunter ! For a mother to sell her 
own daughter into white slavery ! It is unheard 
of ! It is — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Would it make any difference if the man, pre- 
vious to the commission of the criminal act, took 
a ride down town, paid five dollars to the clerk of 
the Court and procured a license? 



140 The Quandary. Act III 

Mr. Coleman. 

[Looks from Dr. Merril to Hunter, as if in 
doubt what to reply to such an altogether prepos- 
terous query.] Mrs. Hunter — you astonish me! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Why, Mr. Coleman? 

Mr. Coleman. 

You simply astonish me ! A license for commit- 
ting violence upon a person ! A license for white 
slavery! Who ever heard of such a thing? 

Mrs. Hunter. 
I mean a marriage license. 

Mr. Coleman. 
A marriage license ! Again you astonish me ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Does that make any difference? 

Mr. Coleman. 
A marriage license! Why, you mean that the 



Act III The Quandary. 141 

man simply married the girl — has consummated 
the sacred tie of wedlock, sanctioned by the ma- 
jesty of the law! Mrs. Hunter, you astonish me! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, you quibblers! The payment of five dol- 
lars and the signature of a seventh-rate ward poli- 
tician who has got a job as clerk of the court, be- 
comes by virtue of some black magic the majesty 
of the law; and that mock majesty gives permis- 
sion to an old profligate to make a young and de- 
fenseless girl the subject of his vile lust, for life, 
and in full view of an unblushing world ! 

Mr. Coleman. 

But you spoke of coercion — where is the coercion 
here? 



Mrs. Hunter. 

I have told you. The girl is young and weak 
and poor — she cannot help herself. She was 
brought up by her mother to be a doll, a plaything, 
a house-ornament. She is an impersonation of 
your principle that woman was made for the home. 
Left to shift for herself, she would perish like 



142 The Quandary. Act III 

a housefly in the winter. She has no means of 
aggression or defense. Does that give the right 
to any old hag who might happen to be her mother 
to commit violence upon her person by compelling 
her to choose between the alternatives of either 
answering "Yes" to the question of "Do you want 
this man for a husband" or of starving? 

Mr. Coleman. 
The girl is of age? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

No, she is a child! She is twenty-one. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Oh. well, then she is — legally — of age. You 
know the law is founded on statistics, which prove 
conclusively — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, your statistics again! [To Dr. Merril.] 
There ought to be some name for people who are 
hysterical over statistics. 



Act III The Quandary. 143 

Dr. Merril. 

There are several— A. B., Ph. D., L. L. D., per- 
haps M. D., and of late D. D. 

Mr. Coleman. 

The case in question is extremely intricate. You 
said something, for instance, about a complication 
of diseases from which the man was suffering. But 
you know, that is sometimes a difficult point to 
establish. It would require expert testimony — 

Mrs. Hunter. 
There is expert testimony ! 

Mr. Coleman. 

You mean to say that there is a reputable phy- 
sician who will state that — 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Yes, there is ; he will state — Dr. Merril ! 

Dr. Merril. 
What?! What do you mean? 



144 The Quandary. Act III 

< 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Mr. Blake has been a patient of yours? 

Dr. Merril. 

[Defiantly.] Yes. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

He surely must have consulted you about the 
question of his marriage? 

Dr. Merril. 
Mrs. Hunter! — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Ah ! He has ! Then you know that he is about 
to ruin a defenseless girl! 

Dr. Merril. 
Mrs. Hunter! — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Mrs. Hunter what? 



Act III The Quandary. 145 

Dr. Merril. 

You astonish me ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I do, do I? I astonish you! Mr. Coleman 
started out the same way. And you couldn't think 
of anything more clever ! This is how much origi- 
nality those men have when put to the test. Your 
long-tailed ancestor could have done as well, Dr. 
Merril. 

Dr. Merril. 
You positively^ 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, stop that! It is disgusting! Very well, I 
astonish you and shock you and everything else! 
Why do you dodge a plain question in this cow- 
ardly fashion? A man whom you know to be 
suffering from a horrible malady is about to in- 
flict it upon an innocent girl. Why don't you 
speak? Have you nothing to say? 



146 The Quandary. Act III 

Dr. Merril. 

[With an effort to pronounce the words dryly.] 
No, I have nothing to say. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You have a great deal to say about compara- 
tively trivial matters — whenever your own skin 
is not involved. And your manner is sometimes 
even more eloquent than your speech. I noticed 
you were very thoughtful and sympathetic this 
afternoon, when Mr. Higgins recited about the 
terrible diseases from which the unfortunates who 
are driven to toil like oxen for bread, suffer and 
die from. — But I suppose your conscience is at 
peace — with the aid of Mr. Fiedler's ready unc- 
tion. You do your share of the work of reducing 
the horrors of the social evil by giving your free 
service to the deserving cases on the list of the 
Society for the Suppression of Vice. But, of 
course, it wouldn't be quite right to expect you to 
rescue a human being from the horrors of disease 
at the cost of a bit of your own skin. You might 
be suspected then of an ulterior motive — a wish to 
save yourself the trouble of subsequent treatment. 



Act III The Quandary. 147 

Dr. Merril. 

Mrs. Hunter, do you know that there is such 
a thing as professional ethics? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Yes, I know. — Professional ethics! It is to 
laugh! — Those people speak of ethics! — 

Dr. Merril. 

Mrs. Hunter, permit me — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Continuing.] And this aggregation of hypo- 
crisy and cowardice has undertaken the task of 
abolishing the social evil! Oh, it is revolting! 

[Exit through the door on the left.} 

Hunter. 

[To Dr. Merril.'] Does Mr. Blake really intend 
to marry Miss Hunch? 

Dr. Merril. 
Nonsense ! The most distant possibility ! 



148 The Quandary. Act III 

Mr. Coleman. 

I'll tell you what it is. Mrs. Hunter must have 
been reading those preposterous books which medi- 
cal quacks send out, telling you how to make an 
easy diagnosis of the most complicated diseases. 

Dr. Merril. 

[With an effort to pronounce the words calmly.] 
I suppose she must have. 

Mr. Coleman. 
Ah, well! [Exit to the parlor.] 

Dr. Merril. 

And yet — Mrs. Hunter seems to speak with 
such an air of certainty about that matter — 

Hunter. 

She is very nervous. It is my fault, Merril. 
But there shall be an end to it — I shall have it out, 
at all costs. She must know everything ! 

Dr. Merril. 

Why — did she hint at anything in that connec- 
tion? 



Act III The Quandary. 149 

Hunter. 

Oh, no! If you only knew, Merril, how kind 
and considerate she is ! And yet — I am quite cer- 
tain that she suspects — 

Dr. Merril. 
Yes, your face betrays much. 

Hunter. 
Merril, there is something I haven't told you. 

Dr. Merril. 
What? 

Hunter. 
I am afraid — I am certain — I'm not quite well. 

Dr. Merril. 

Nonsense. It's all here. [Points to Hunter's 
forehead.] 

Hunter. 

This is the worst of it. How will you explain 
it? Somehow — [He pauses.] I cannot dissociate 



150 The Quandary. Act III 

— [He stops abruptly, finishing the sentence with a 
wave of his hand.] 

Dr. Merril. 

What do you mean ? 

Hunter. 
I cannot dissociate in my mind my wife from — 

Dr. Merril. 
[With genuine concern.'] What? 

Hunter. 

I've told you I must be ill. That feeling came 
over me the first moment I saw my wife in that 
little Western town. It has obsessed me and tor- 
mented me all these months. 

♦ 

Dr. Merril. 

Perhaps a certain resemblance — 

Hunter. 

Yes, a certain suggestion in her expression, par- 
ticularly when she is absorbed. Merril, it is a 



Act III The Quandary. 151 

shameful confession to make, but as a physician 
you will understand me and not judge me harshly. 
It was this faint resemblance which was the real 
cause of my proposing to her. 

Dr. Merril. 
[Thoughtfully.'] I see. 

Hunter. 

Merril, can you quite appreciate the extent of 
the wrong I am committing against her? I feel 
that she understands my feeling, much as she tries 
to conceal the fact. 

Dr. Merril. 

Then why don't you make a clean breast of it 
and be done with it? 

Hunter. 

I was on the point of doing it a hundred times, 
but — if you only knew how much harder it is to 
say it to her than it is to you ! Will she understand 
it — will she forgive me? And if she will forgive, 
will she ever become reconciled to it and forget? 
And even if she will forgive and forget — Merril, 



152 The Quandary. Act III 

the world, even though it forgives those things, 
never forgets ! 

Dr. Merril. 

That is so. Only true masters can rise to the 
height of placing their own judgment of themselves 
above that of the world. Neither I nor you have 
risen to that height. 

Hunter. 

[In a low voice.} Yes, yes — the great masters 
" — Where — where are they? 

Dr. Merril. 

We are doomed by a defective education to roll 
along in the common groove — to think as others 
think, to do as others do, to be what others are. 
[With much bitterness.] We deceive ourselves 
into thinking that we are possessed of some indi- 
viduality. The fallacy of it ! The only reason 
why we move along at all is because we are im- 
pelled by the pressure of our co-molecules in the 
direction of the common resultant! 

Hunter. 
In the direction of the common resultant, on the 



Act III The Quandary. 153 

way to complete equilibrium — the true death. And 
is this all? 

Dr. Merril. 

This is the prospect. Hunter, do you know 
what would happen to our globe if a single mole- 
cule were to rebel and cease its rotatory motion in 
the line of the common resultant? 

Hunter. 

What? 

Dr. Merril. 

That molecule would plow up our entire mud- 
ball, perhaps raise it to an incandescent heat. But 
in order to accomplish that feat it would have to 
be possessed of all the powers of Chaos, of hell. 
I tell you, Hunter, if our messiah will ever come, 
he must come from hell, armed with all the chaotic 
powers of hell! Such a messiah may succeed in 
prodding us out of the groove of the common re- 
sultant ! 

Hunter. 

[With profound emotion.] Oh, but will he 
ever come! 



154 The Quandary. Act III 

Dr. Merril. 

Yes, the moment we are ready for his reception; 
when we shall have reached that state of equili- 
brium when we have no more strength to keep him 
out. It is the law — 

Enter Coleman and Sam from the parlor. 

Sam. 
Good evening, Mr. Hunter. 

Hunter. 

Sam — good evening. Oh — here. I have nearly 
forgotten. [Produces a bill book from his breast 
pocket, takes some paper money from it and hands 
it to Sam! Mrs. Hunter has asked me to give it to 
you — her Christmas present. 

Sam. 

[Taking the money rather indifferently.} Thank 
you, Mr. Hunter. 

A sudden uproar of loud conversation and 
laughter reaches them from the parlor. 



Act III The Quandary. 155 

Hunter. 

What's that? 

Mr. Coleman. 
The young people must be enjoying themselves. 

Enter from the parlor Clara, her mother, Blake 
and Fiedler, the last three in glowing spirits. Some- 
one from the parlor throws after them a hand- 
ful of confetti. There is a general interchange of 
"Good evening" Enter Mrs. Hunter from the 
room on the left. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[On entering.] What's that? 

Hunter. 

[To the guests.] Why so late? 

Fiedler. 

[In high spirits, shaking Hunter's hand.] Duty 
before pleasure, Mr. Hunter; the duty of the pul- 
pit, you know. These people have just called on 
me to tie for them the knot of wedlock. [ To the 



156 The Quandary. x\ct III 

company at large.} Permit me to introduce to 
you — Mr. and Mrs. Blake. 

There is a sudden hush. Dr. Merril retreats a 
few steps, almost staggering. 

Sam. 

[Places the paper money , which he has been hold- 
ing in his hand on a chair nearest to Mrs. Hunter.] 
Here's your money, Mrs. Hunter; I don't want 
it — I don't want any more presents. I thank you 
for having raised my wages, Mr. Hunter — but 
you said it was a Christmas present, and I don't 
want any presents. I thank you for the free ad- 
vice you gave me this afternoon, Dr. Merril, I'm 
sorry I can't make any use of it. Those presents 
in the cannery business and in the Society for the 
Suppression of Vice don't amount to much in 
the long run, and they make one feel that he is 
indebted all the time. I know you'll think it very, 
wicked of me, Mr. Fiedler, to talk that way, but 
I've decided to cut loose from that sort of thing. 
It looks to me like the whole thing is a humbug, 
Mr. Fiedler. I wish you a merry Christmas, Mrs. 
Blake. Good night. [Goes toward the door on 
the right.] 



Act III The Quandary. 157 

Dr. Merril. 

[Getting hold of his arm.] Wait — what's the 
trouble with you — where are you going? 

Sam. 

I'm going to where I can get something more 
decent to drink than your red lemonade, and then 
— to see the ladies. I've come to the conclusion 
that it isn't worth one's while to be good. [Rushes 
out of door.] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Running after him,] Wait — Sam — wait! Get 
hold of him, somebody! Sam! — [Exit.] 

Mrs. Hunch. 

Well, I declare ! That's what comes of allow- 
ing them too many familiarities ! 

Fiedler. 

Now, then! What do you think of that? The 
boy must be drunk! The influence of heredity, 
Doctor, the influence of heredity! 

Enter Mrs. Hunter } out of breath, 



158 The Quandary. Act III 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Gone ! He's gone ! 

Mr. Blake. 
That's what it is — the influence of heredity! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

That man talks of the influence of heredity! — 
That dog! 

Mr. Blake. 

[Trembling with suppressed rage.] D — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

A fine match, this is you've got for your daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Hunch ! A rich man, a respectable citi- 
zen of the community, a prominent member in the 
movement for the uplift of the standard of morals. 
Strong on the suppression of houses of ill fame and 
the saloons ! Has no faith in the good old maxim 
that competition is the life of trade; no! not when 
a reputable hotel business is at stake ! 



Act III The Quandary. 159 

Mrs. Hunch. 

What then should I have done with her? Sent 
her to work in the cannery perhaps ? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

It were better. From the cannery there is still 
an escape into a house of ill fame; as it is, she will 
be unfitted even for that. 

Mr. Blake. 

The woman is mad! By God, if you say an- 
other word I'll — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Ha, ha ! Just listen to him — he is threatening 
me! 

Mr. Blake. 
[To Clara and her mother.] Come, let's go! 

Mrs. Hunter. 
Too late, Mr. Blake ! 



160 The Quandary. Act III 

Mr. Blake. 

What in the — What do you mean? 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Mrs. Hunch, just a minute, before you go. You'll 
be glad to learn, I'm sure, that no resident of the 
houses of ill fame controlled some years ago in 
the city of Chicago by your new son-in-law, would 
consent to have any relations with him, for fear 
of contracting the diseases for which he was fa- 
mous. It was very charitable of you, Mrs. Hunch, 
to have accommodated him with your daughter! 

Fiedler. 
Mrs. Hunter! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh, Mr. Fiedler — pardon me. Permit me to 
congratulate you. You have helped to consum- 
mate a tie which is bound to reflect credit on your 
cause of morality. You have helped to lay the 
foundations of a home ! A home, mind you, not 
a house of ill fame — a Christian home ! 

Clara faints away in a chair. Her mother and 



Act III The Quandary. 161 

Mr. Blake arc trying to revive her. Dr. Merril 
approaches her and feels her pulse. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

That's very kind of you. Dr. Merril ! 

Dr. Merril takes a few rapid strides backward, 
as if struck by a bullet. 

Mr. Coleman. 

Mrs. Hunter, I am bound to say — I feel it my 
duty to tell you — that it is wrong to make deduc- 
tions of this kind from something that probably 
amounts to no more than ordinary hearsay ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

You mean regarding the condition of this gen- 
tleman? Your statistical sense will be gratified 
then to be informed that I knew personally the 
women in Chicago who were unfitted for im- 
moral purposes by disease — ruined for good — by 
this champion of morality. 

Hunter. 

You knew them ! - 



162 The Quandary. Act III 

Mr. Blake. 



She is mad! 



Mrs. Hunter. 



I am mad, am I ? Do you remember that night 
in midwinter when you had me turned out into the 
street without my coat, because I wouldn't — Well, 
I shall spare you the rest ! I can hardly contain 
myself for joy when I think of that. I must have 
deprived a hundred doctors of their bread that 
night. By morning there wasn't a woman in the 
segregated district who wasn't informed of this 
gentleman's condition and on guard against him. 

Hunter. 

[Remains dumbstruck for a minute, then with 
sudden realization.] You ! What are you saying? 
— Mabel — you ! [Steps back in horror and covers 
his face with his hands.] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Oh don't be horrified, Mr. Hunter. The ma- 
jesty of the law is all on your side. I have con- 
cealed from you my past, therefore your marriage 



Act III The Quandary. 163 

is null and void ab initio. I believe this is what 
they call it. Am I right, Mr. Coleman? 

Mr. Coleman. 
Perfectly correct; null and void ab initio. 

Hunter. 

[Quite wild with emotion.'] But why have you 
concealed it !— Why have you I What have I ever 
done to you — what have I ever done to anybody 
to deserve this punishment? Oh — {Again covers 
his face with his hands, ,] 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Sh-sh! Not so loud! You will disturb them 
[Points to the curtain in the rear.] You ask me 
why have I concealed my past? Well— you have 
never told me of your past. Surely, every man, no 
matter how good, has something behind him at the 
age of forty that he might tell to his disadvantage 
if he cared to. And yet, your position was a far 
more advantageous one than mine. How little,, 
after all. you might have lost by presenting the 
world with a true biography of yourself ! Perhaps a 
directorate in the Association for the Suooression 



164 The Quandary. Act III 

of Vice; perhaps the good opinion of some scores 
of hypocrites, the respect of some dozens of fools, 
and the admiration of a few professional moralists. 
You would have still retained the respect of the le- 
gions of cowards, and the unchanged opinion of the 
few brave and sensible and truly charitable people. 
You could still obtain a comfortable livelihood; 
and in the end, the world, even though it might 
not forget, would surely forgive. Not so with 
me — a woman — whose transgression the world 
neither forgives nor forgets; before whose least 
misstep the bravest, the wisest and the most chari- 
table join with the hordes of cowards and hypo- 
crites and fools in the virtuous attempt of tramp- 
ling her down in the mud! 

Hunter. 

[Still quite zvild.] Then you should have kept 
your secret ! Who ever asked you to speak ! For 
your own sake, if not for mine, you should have 
never spoken ! — You should have — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

What fools those angels are ! Mr. Hunter, you 
have lived your life in a little heaven, and your 
experiences are those which may be gathered from 



Act III The Quandary. 165 

milk and honey and the music of the haip. [With 
great force.] How dare you presume to judge 
what is best for one who has had all the experiences 
of a sojourn in hell! Be at ease on that score — 
I know what is best for me ! Believe me I should 
like to have even the respect of Mrs. Hunch, were 
such a thing possible. Surely, I should like to have 
your respect, and that of Mr. Fiedler, and Dr. 
Merril — indeed, the respect of all the good, even 
though they be inexperienced people. But there is 
one whose respect is dearer to me than that of all 
the rest of mankind — mine ! — my own respect for 
myself! And that I could obtain only by placing 
my own judgment of myself above that of the 
world — by an unlimited capacity of appearing 
before the world as I am — by an unrestrained free- 
dom of conscience ! It is a gem which I have 
found in the deepest depths of hell, and with 

w T hich I shall not part for a thousand heavens ! 

j 
Dr. Merril. 

[Shaking Hunter, who appears dazed, by the 
shoulder.] Hunter, Hunter, do you hear that? — 
The great master — the messiah come from hell — 

Hunter. 

Oh, Merril, Merril — 



166 The Quandary. Act III 

Dr. Merril. 

Our long awaited messiah, come from Chaos 
and hell to prod us out from our rut — [Turning to 
Mrs. Hunter.] Mrs. Hunter, hear me all — 

Hunter. 

[Interrupting him.] No, wait — let me speak 
first. [In a loud voice and concise accents.] Mabel, 
hear me — and you, too, all. The world takes me 
for a good and pure man. Now I want to tell you 
something that may surprise you.— 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Interrupting.] No, wait. I am not through. 
I have a little story to tell you, ladies and gentle- 
men. There was once a little girl in this city, 
born of poor and ignorant working people. Her 
education consisted in telling her lies and filling 
her with all possible superstitions — the same edu- 
cation that is given to all the children. Her elders 
and betters were particularly anxious about her 
future morality. She was told that she must not 
play with boys, and the reason given for it at home 
was that if she did she would receive a beating, and 
at Sunday School, that she would go to hell. At the 



Act III The Quandary. 167 

age of twelve she was considered as sufficiently 
equipped with that sort of knowledge to enter the 
industrial field and repay society for the trouble 
it had taken with her physical and moral educa- 
tion. The little girl would work hard all day in the 
cannery and at night she would help her mother 
with the housework and the tending of the chil- 
dren. Then her mother died — died from over- 
work and care — died without having ever seen in 
her whole life a ray of happiness or hope. The 
little girl saw it — she knew that the prospect which 
lay before her was no better than that of her 
mother's. Once in a great while she would go 
up town. There she saw happy faces in the streets, 
and women who rode in motor cars and wore beau- 
tiful dresses. She saw pretty things displayed in 
the shop-windows, and she heard the sounds of 
music coming from the threatre doors. And then 
she would go back to the alley in which she lived — 
back to her home. Oh, what a home it was ! 
There was nothing pretty there; everything was 
ugly, repulsive, old, dirty, cheap and rotten. There 
was no light there, no play, no life no hope — 
everything was decrepid, dark, cheerless, hopehss. 
A sad and wretched father, a dying baby, a pale 
and sickly brother. [Her voice falters.] — She 
found herself in the dark and alone — -she discov- 



168 The Quandary. Act III 

ered that her elders and her betters had been lying 
to her — She was alone, with no one to advise her, 
no one to enlighten her in her distress. — Like a 
blind beast at bay she threw herself into the dark- 
est corner which promised an escape — from ev- 
erything ! — the work in the cannery, the misery at 
home, the — [She covers her face with her hands.} 

Hunter. 

Mabel ! — Lizzie — Lizzie ! — You have omitted 
something — You haven't told them all ! Tell them 
— tell them all ! — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[She hesitates an instant.} Her little baby 
brother died just then. — That was the event which 
decided her — - 

Hunter. 

No, no ! Not that ! Not that ! 

Mrs. Hunter. 

Yes, that. — Nothing else ! — Don't listen to him 
— He doesn't know ! — 



Act III The Quandary. 169 

Hunter. 

I do ! Listen — 

Mrs. Hunter. 

I say no! I tell you you do not know! The 
o-irl was robbed of the facts of existence to start 
with, by what you, ladies and gentlemen, probably 
in a spirit of irony, call the education of the young. 
And then came the endless drudgery in the cannery, 
with all the beastliness, the ugliness, the wretched- 
ness and utter hopelessness that it involves; to- 
gether with the superadded insult of the Christmas 
dinner, the morality sermon — all the imbecile ideal- 
ism of our misguided and imbecile idealists — that 
it was! That alone! Nothing else! 

Hunter. 

[R-nimA" f o his wife's side.] Lizzie, Lizzie! 
Forgive me Lizzie dearest ! — I have lived in ignor- 
ance—the darkest, the most debasing ignorance! 
I have taken the last crumb of sustenance from 
the struggling girl — her last ray of hope and 
tried to coin it into vain and gossamer ideals! I 
have brought death to the living in a stupid effort 
to resurrect the dead! I have closed my eyes to 



170 The Quandary. Act III 

the struggles of the weak [Feinting to Clara.] and 
thus helped to perpetuate and glorify and elevate 
the powers of vice! [Suddenly turning to Fiedler.] 
Mr. Fiedler, do you know what we have been 
doing? We have been sowing ideals — this is the 
reason we have been reaping a harvest of thorns. 
Oh, I see it now clearly ! Ideals are peculiar 
growths! Bread, bread must be sown! Truth, en- 
lightenment must be spread — then will a crop of 
ideals sprout forth; but plant ideals, and thorns 
will grow ! [Turning to his wife again.] Forgive 
me, Lizzie dearest! — You have lifted the veil from 
my eyes. — -You have redeemed me from deepest 
damnation ! — You are an angel, you are a saint ! 

He holds forth his arms; she hides her face on 
his breast. 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Smiling through her tears.] No, dear — don't 
call me that. — But you may call me a — little devil ; 
I like that better — 

Hunter. 

No, no ! Rather the messiah come from Chaos, 
to prod us out from the rut of stagnation — 



Act III The Quandary. 171 

Mrs. Hunter. 

[Looking in the direction of the door on the 
right.] My poor little brother! 

Fiedler. 

Poor boy! And all our efforts couldn't retain 
him! [Suddenly with deep and sincere emotion.] 
Dr. Merril — it seems to< me there has been some- 
thing radically wrong in our methods! We have 
been apparently on the wrong track! [With in- 
creasing agitation.] It looks to me as if all our 
efforts have been absolutely wasted, worse than 
wasted ! 

Hunter. 

We must take stock and begin anew — along to- 
tally different lines. Our mistake consisted in that 
we have been continually building — piling up story 
upon story — while the foundation was hopelessly 
defective. We must begin by destroying, by pull- 
ing down — 

Dr. Merril. 

And we must start with ourselves — by a com- 
plete change of raiment. Down with the old gar- 



172 The Quandary. Act III 

ment ! To the flames with it ! Not a vestige of it 
must be left! [Approaches Blake, who has been 
standing dazed all the while.] How dared you not 
follow my advice — my positive prohibition — not 
to marry while — 

Mr. Blake. 

[Interrupting him.] And this is what you call 
professional ethics ! Shame on you, Dr. Merril ! A 
nice kind of a doctor you are ! 

Dr. Merril. 

[With his hand on his forehead.] Ah! Pro- 
fessional ethics! — Part of the old garment — 

Coleman. 

[To Fiedler, who is directing a forlorn look 
towards Clara.] You are not to be blamed, Mr. 
Fiedler. It was only your duty — the duty of the 
pulpit ! 

Fiedler. 

My duty? The duty of the pulpit? The duty 
of the pulpit did you say? — Let me see — 



Act III The Quandary. 173 

Mrs. Hunch. 

I hope you'll not blame me! What could I 
have done with her? I couldn't have sent her to 
the cannery! 

Hunter. 

The cannery ! Do you hear that ? The cannery 
again ! 

Coleman. 

I fear we shall have to — re-crystallize our sta- 
tistics. 

CURTAIN. 
THE END. 



AUG 8 1918 



